


Hound Amongst Wolves

by Aspareme



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspareme/pseuds/Aspareme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King's Landing is burning down around them the night that the Hound promises to keep her safe and take her home. He's not lied to her yet, but the road home to Winterfell is more winding than Sansa remembers, and infinitely more dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Want To Go Home?

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a story predicated on a single "what if": What if Sansa had said yes? 
> 
> Expect a mix of Book and Show canon; events may occur, but not always to the same characters. Canon-typical violence is par for the course, but in the interests of keeping it classy, assume Sansa is show-aged.

**Sansa**

“The lady is starting to panic”, she hears as she slides the bolt home, and stifles the scream in her throat. The rasping voice is immediately familiar, and Sansa whirls to face the man slumped on her bed reeking of wine and blood. Outside, the shrieks of horses and men are shrill and the air smells acrid, oily, like a tallow candle gone too long in a closed room. _Tallow is nothing but melted fat_ , she thinks, and crosses to the window, sliding it shut with a sharp snap. The hulking figure on the bed seems to relax minutely, and Sansa knows the Hound must be terrified. 

 

The thought is not at all reassuring. 

 

“What are you doing here?”, she demands, still clutching her father’s doll. He’d given it to her and she’d sniffed, thought it childish and turned up her nose. It was silly, she had told him, and it had been his last gift to her. It brings her a cold comfort now, even as she stares down the Hound. “Not here for long”, he replies, voice lower than ever. He smells of smoke, of burnt things, and to her horror, Sansa realizes he’s been outside the walls, out with the fire. “I’m going”, he adds, and Sansa is so startled she can’t stop it, can’t shut her mouth before the word flies out, “Where?” 

He looks at her with hollow eyes. He’s drunk, of course, but more terrified even than that. With the sound of screaming and the eerie hiss of the green flame in the distance consuming everything it touches, she can’t find it in herself to blame him. “Someplace that isn’t burning”, Sandor tells her, and she feels it like a blow to the stomach. She knows, and her surprise is only that he hasn’t broken and run already. They will call him craven for deserting, but they don’t understand. It’s only the fire he fears, and how can he possibly fight that? Who could ever hope to win against it? 

 

“North, might be. Could be.” 

 

The desperate hope rising up in her throat chokes her and makes her hands shake, so she clasps them in front of her. He’s come close now, hemming her in, grasping her arm. It’s tight, and his grip hurts, but she pays it no mind. She can smell wine, fear-sweat and the tang of stale vomit. It makes her stomach heave, but she stays still. “You won’t get out. The queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates are shut as well.” “Not to me”, he tells her. “I have the white cloak. And I have this”, the Hound says, hand resting on the pommel of his sword momentarily, as though reassuring himself that it’s still at his side. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire”, he adds, and he sounds so bitter to Sansa’s ears that she aches. 

 

_He’s terrified_ , she thinks, _and wants nothing more than to leave, to escape_. In her pity, she makes a critical misstep and asks, “Why did you come here?”. She means instead of leaving, but she wishes she could eat the words as soon as they’ve left her mouth. _Stupid girl_ , she thinks bitterly, _don’t you know better than to ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to? What other reason could a man have for searching you out at a time like this?_

 

“You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?” He calls her little bird and she startles, meeting his eyes sharply. Outside, green fire whips across the sky, and she thinks he must have gone mad. There’s nothing to sing about here, not now. Not ever, if she’s being honest. “I can’t,” she tells him, and feels his hand tighten sharply on her arm. He doesn’t like being defied, she knows, but tonight they both seem to be disobeying their orders. “Let me go, you’re scaring me.”

“Everything scares you. Look at me. _Look_ at me.”

 

She does, then, meeting his gaze steadily. There’s blood on his face, splattered viscously over cheek and congealing in his beard. For once, the burnt flesh is not the most frightening thing about him. It’s his eyes, now, white and wide as a spooked horse, terrifying and terrified. 

 

“I could keep you safe,” he rasps. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

 

Sansa thinks of being safe, of never again being beaten. She knows he means what he says; he’s never yet lied to her, even when he was cruel. _Especially_ , she realizes with a sick lurch of her stomach, _when he was cruel_. She thinks of being hurt, of Ser Meryn, of knights in white cloaks with heavy armour-plated hands, of Joffrey. She thinks of all the things that wake her up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, gasping with fear and shoving a hand in her mouth to stifle mewling whimpers. She thinks of facing those fears, thinks of _him_ facing his, of having all those fears become real in a green maelstrom. Of having to run into them, _lead_ people into them, to die in an agony he knows intimately. She shudders. 

 

_Why are you so awful_ , she had asked him once, when he’d been deliberately vicious in the face of her courtesies. They were her only weapon, she knew, a sword of words and a shield of silk, for all the good they’d been blocking blows—which was to say, not at all. She still wore the bruises to prove it. _I’m honest_ , he had told her, _it’s the world that’s awful_. 

 

He hadn’t yet lied to her. 

 

Sansa whimpers and closes her eyes at the enormity of the realization. 

 

“Still can’t bear to look”, he snarls, and hauls her in closer. She stumbles, a hand slapping up against his armour to steady herself, landing in something sticky. Blood, she realizes belatedly, and can’t help the revulsion that wells up in her. He leans in and for a swooping, surreal second she thinks he’s going to kiss her. She steels herself for it; a stolen kiss while he reeks of smoke and what she hopes is _only_ blood dries between her fingers. _The grace-note to my song_ , she thinks bitterly, and wishes she’d never heard of this hellish city burning down around her ears. Suddenly she’s on her back on the bed, and he’s above her, legs hemming her in and a dagger at her neck. 

He tells her to sing for her life, tells her to sing Florian and Jonquil, even as the sharp tip of the dagger pricks the skin above the fluttering pulse in her throat. His hand shakes, though with nerves or drink she can’t say. Her own mouth is dry as Dorne, and she’s quaking with fear, every song she’s ever known flying from her mind all at once. _Please don’t kill me_ , she wants to scream, but nothing comes out. He pushes the dagger in further, making her whimper, and then she remembers. 

 

It’s not Florian and Jonquil, but it’s a song. 

 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_save our sons from war, we pray,_

_stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_let them know a better day._

_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_

_help our daughters through this fray,_

_soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_

_teach us all a kinder way._

 

And then as suddenly as it had appeared, the blade is gone. He’s pulled away, a little, and in the darkness of the room she can feel a heaviness there, a tension, as though the silence is a length of summer silk taut and ready to rip. Some instinct makes her lift her hand, finding his cheek. The burnt flesh is ridged under her fingers, sticky with blood, and wet with something that isn’t. “Little bird”, he says again, quietly, in a tone she’d call broken in a lesser man. She sucks in a breath as he shoves off of her, and when he turns to leave, she thinks of a burning city, of Stannis and his raiders, of the single bolt on her door. She thinks of Ser Meryn, of Joffrey, of Ser Ilyn Payne, of her father’s head on a spike rotting in the southern heat, flies buzzing in his eyes. She thinks of the cold, of the snow, of the howl of wolves in the woods, of her family. Of Winterfell. Of the North. 

 

Sansa thinks about going _home_.

 

He’s nearly at the door when she speaks. 

 

“Five minutes”, she rasps out, and he freezes mid-step. “And then I’ll go with you.”

* * *

 

**Sandor**

_Gods be good_ , the little bird had whispered when we first emerged into the streets, voice sick with horror. I can understand that, at least, even if her gods have long since abandoned this place, these people, assuming they ever existed at all. The city is alight. The ships in the harbour are burning, the bloody _water_ ’ _s_ aflame, and we’re in the thick of it. The wine leeches out the worst of the terror, but every scream makes my skin crawl. 

 

There’s a lot of it, screaming, from men and horses and women, all of them trying to kill or avoid being killed by one another. There's that green flame whipping around like a viper, too, sticking to everything it touches. It had gone like a poison mushroom up into the sky when the Imp had set the signal, and now it's mating with its mundane red cousin, killing everything in its path. 

 

With the little bird tucked shaking under one arm, I do the same, cutting down anyone who dares stand between me and the stables. There aren’t many so foolish as to try, but a few—enough—and my sword is blooded. So’s my face, and hers, under the ash. 

 

Five minutes, she had asked for, and I had given her seven, but at least she’d made them count. Couldn’t do a thing about her face, being far too recognizable already with those high Northern features, but she’d done her best. Ash from the fireplace in her hair to darken it, a dark cloak to cover her fine dress, a pair of sturdy boots under it all. She’d hastily thrown a few things into her bag: a sewing kit and needle, two serviceable dresses, and all her jewelry. 

 

_Clever little bird_ , I think as I swing my sword one-handed and a red-cloak falls, near cleaved in two. Joffrey had liked her pretty, and there had been trinkets and tokens until nearly the end. Wouldn’t have done for a Lannister to look _cheap_ , of all things, and while they don’t care a shit for the girl, the lions do love their pride. All that means now is there’s gold enough to travel with, even without my tourney winnings. From the way she’d dropped it all into a dirty stocking for safekeeping, she hadn’t cared for Lannister generosity. With the bruises on her arm from Joffrey’s latest attentions only now going the colour of goldenrod, I don’t much either. 

 

She’d thrown a few small things in at the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a shift: the doll she’d dropped when I’d grabbed her like a brute, a man’s heavy ring on a long chain that she’d fished out of a doe-skin winter boot shoved into the back of her garderobe and a small book of prayers with a worn ribbon and tattered spine. She had been quick, efficient, but if it was the panic or practice that gave her the speed, I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter any; not ten minutes after taking my damn song from her at knife-point she’d followed me out into the seventh hell. 

 

The stables are still standing, though a groomsman tries to block our way. He demands— _demands_ , the ballsy runt—to know who goes there. The white cloak only catches attention, so I gut him and down he falls. Dead men don’t talk, and what’s another corpse in a city populated by them? The little bird makes a raw noise as the carcass drops, but manages to retch away from both of our boots. “Enough of that”, I growl at her, all business in this hellhole. She shoots me a look of near-loathing and I glare right back at her, satisfied to see that she only cowers a little bit now. Why she’s come with me I’m sure I don’t know, but here she is and a dog she’s got; you’d think she’d be more used to snarls seeing as how she’s the one once had a wolf on a leash. 

“You didn’t have to kill him”, she says softly, and I look at her, gaze flat. “Didn’t I? And when the horse is gone in the morning, and you and I with it, who do you think they’ll ask? Assuming he survives the night, of course”, I add, and she has the grace to drop her gaze, conceding the point. “I won’t have my head on a spike for not saying _please_ , little bird”, I rasp, and she nods. “Are we stealing a horse, ser?” I feel my gut clench at the courtesy. I’m no ser and she knows it; the passive little punishment needles like a nettle, but I’m too wine-drunk and fire-mad to argue the point. “Not a ser”, I remind her harsh as I can manage, “And no. We’re taking mine.” 

 

Down the hall, Stranger bugles a greeting at my voice and when we get closer, he stamps his hoof hard. Agitated, he is, a big black brute raring for battle. I rumble at him, soothe him with his name and a firm hand down his nose before going to saddle him, careful to keep a watchful eye on his teeth as he’s liable to take a bite out of me if I look at him cross-ways. Always liked him, the foul-tempered creature, but the girl looks at him as though he’s a dragon and not a destrier. “Frightened?”, I ask, and she cuts her gaze to me from under her lashes, face inscrutable. “He does not seem tame”, she murmurs, voice deep with misgivings, “nor particularly gentle.” 

 

I wonder if she means me for a second, and then give that train of thought up for uselessness. She probably does, and she wouldn’t be wrong, as I’m neither and meaner than any horse into the bargain. “As you say”, I agree, and saddle the bad-tempered beast quickly, leading him out into the corridor. Outside, the battle seems to be reaching its apex and I know we’ve got no better time to make our disappearance. Swinging the little bird into the saddle and going up after her, I drive heels into Stranger’s flanks and head for the gates, stopping for no-one. The unfortunate gold-cloaks who try to intervene meet the sharp end of my blade and the Iron Gate is a few short moments of work before we’re on our way out of it, galloping down the road as though the fires of all the hells were at our back, which given circumstance isn’t half-wrong. I keep canny; the Lannisters and Tyrells are roaming about and while Baratheon’s troops appear to be retreating, I’d rather not take my chances against an army—any army. The little bird clings to my back like a barnacle, pretty face pressed tight to my armour. I remember that she’s never been a particularly competent rider, preferring the wheelhouse on the way south a thousand years ago. Nothing to be done about that now, but I tell her to hold on tight all the same and feel her arms tighten around my waist as Stranger careens down the road at breakneck speed. 

 

We don’t stop until nearly dawn, when the green flames of the city are long out of sight and we have to stop or risk discovery on the road. The scent of cinders and smoke hangs pungent on the breeze, but with the whole kingdom ablaze there’s no escaping it. I turn to look and see her pale as a wight, eyes shock-wide and blue as a February sky. Pupils near pin-pricked, breath short with nerves and pain. _Long night for the both of us_ , I think. She must feel the ache of the ride. Even I do and I’ve sat a horse since before I needed shaving; a highborn girl would be even worse for it. Still, she hasn’t once yet said a peep, and I can’t fault her grit. Swinging down off the saddle, I lift her out and put her to the ground, holding on for only a moment longer than like I should. 

 

Light as a feather, the little bird is, tiny songbird bones under winter-pale skin even the King’s Landing sun couldn’t hope to touch. She staggers when I let her go, leaning against the horse to steady herself even as Stranger shudders and sidesteps. “Stop it”, I growl to the horse, but she misreads and looks at me with those blue eyes wounded, welling with tears. _Seven hells_ , I think, and shake my head. I’m a soldier, not a septa—what have I gone and gotten myself into? Without the wine, the morning seems bleaker, her ashy red hair the only spot of colour, bright enough to hurt my eyes even as I can’t get enough of it. 

“We’ll stay off the road during the day”, I tell her, voice rough with smoke and the night’s terror. “Safer.” She nods, and looks to me as though I know where to go. I don’t, not for true, but I’m no green lad and know how to keep my head down if needs must. Never needed it more than now, that’s truth too, with a stolen little bird relying on me. I’d promised to get her home, and then I’d frightened her badly with that damned dagger. She’d made me weep like the drunk craven I was and I can blame it on the wine or the fire if I want, but the fact remains I’d made her an oath. 

 

Never sworn an oath to anyone, not even kings, and yet the little bird managed to extract one. A traitor I might now be, but as I pick through the brambles to find somewhere to nest for the day, I can’t help but think I’ve finally picked the right lord to serve. Behind me, I hear the girl give a little yelp as she gets another shin-full of little thorns and barely manage to stifle my growl. 

 

Goes to figure it would be a _Lady._

* * *

 

**Sansa**

He leads them through the thicket, following a path she can’t identify in the pre-dawn darkness. Winding around trees and down deeper into the forest until she can no longer see the road, the Hound keeps going with a dogged determination. She wishes that he would stop, or at least slow down; her skirts catch on every twig, scraping her shins raw as she struggles. Tangled in brambles, Sansa feels as though she’s being mauled by kittens, but still he wends on methodically as she hurries to keep up. The ride has left her thighs bruised and her hips aching, and she can barely stand when finally she breaks and swallows her pride. 

“Please, Ser, slow down!” 

Her voice is soft but within an instant he’s turned back and crowded her up against a tree. With her back to the bark and his scarred face in hers, breath sour with wine and last night’s vomit, she has never been more repulsed by him. Still, Sansa somehow knows he will not hurt her, even as he snarls. “Not a buggering Ser”, and it’s said a dangerous tone, lethal as a whetstone on steel. He could frighten her. He _should_ , but having seen him shaking, having felt the tears she herself put on his cheek, she finds it hard to be scared. _Still a stupid little girl, believing in songs and the chivalry of true knights. He's a killer_ , she tells herself, even as she lifts her eyes to meet his gaze unflinchingly. “I know”, she says, voice cool, “but neither are you a lord, and I needs must call you something.” 

 

He barks out a laugh, baring his teeth at her. “Hound”, he growls, and she shakes her head slowly. Hound is what Joffrey had called him, or _dog_ , names meant to degrade and insult. The thought of being anything at all like Joffrey makes her taste bile in the back of her throat. She can still see the little sneer on his lips when he had done something particularly vile, the madness in his eyes and worse, the enjoyment he took from hurting and debasing those under his power. 

 

Like her. 

 

Like the Hou— like Ser San—

 

“Sandor”, she says, stunned at her own audacity. He rears back from her, eyes wide for a moment, looking nearly as shocked as she feels. She wouldn’t dare hazard a guess as to the last time someone called him by his given name, but in the absence of alternatives, she’ll do what she must. She will not call him _Hound_ to his face, nor _dog_ ; Clegane is his _brother_ and after the nightmare he’d recounted to her on the tourney field, she would rather bite off her tongue than call him anything to do with him. It might be spiteful, and it’s certainly improper, but Sansa resolves then and there that if he does not allow her courtesies, he will accept her liberties. 

 

In any case, there’s the illicit thrill of power she feels at the idea of having shocked him into silence. She knows that, flames aside, the Hound is not a man easily rattled.

 

He takes a step back and Sansa understands it for the concession it is, lifting her chin up. “Please slow down. Even were I not aching from the ride, your legs are much longer than mine. I would rather not be lost in the woods”. She knows she's made her point by the way his brows beetle down as though he had not considered that perhaps a slight girl, no matter how tall, might not be able to keep up with a soldier of his size. Obviously it has never yet been an issue for him, but now he must make accommodations. _After all_ , she thinks petulantly _, he asked_ me _to come._

 

“Come on, then”, he mutters, but his voice has gentled some. She lengthens her stride as best she’s able, gritting her teeth the whole while. _I have suffered through worse_ , she reminds herself sternly, _and would walk to Winterfell if it meant never having to return to Joffrey’s tender mercies_.  Soon enough, they break through the trees into a small hollow, and in the weak light she sees him tie the horse to the tree. “Here?”, she asks, looking around. “Where else, girl?”, he sneers at her, misinterpreting her question. She had only meant to ask if this was the place and why. To her eyes, one patch of forest is the same as any other. “Were you expecting a feather-bed and silk sheets?” 

 

She offers him a bland look, biting back a million retorts with the ease of long, necessary practice. After all, it had been the Hound who had taught her to hold her tongue and keep her opinions to herself. _Save yourself some pain_ , he had told her after Joffrey had bloodied her lip and made her look at her father’s disembodied head going mottled in the heat, _give him what he wants_. He obviously expects her to be simpering and mostly useless, and perhaps she is. Perhaps, but she has never done anything to cause this enmity, nor the quicksilver shifts in his temperament that leave her reeling. Exhaustion makes her bold, and newfound liberty reckless. 

 

“You are unkind”, she tells him flatly. “I was merely asking, and have given you no cause for your rudeness.” 

 

She knows how prim she sounds even as she says it, and curses herself for her idiocy. She watches him warily, expecting a cuff around the head or simply for him to mount the destrier and disappear, leaving her here. Instead, he simply watches through those hooded eyes of his, and then nods, sharp. “Yes, here. The hollow—“, he pauses, jerking his chin towards the lip of the little hill, “It muffles sound, hides the horse. Keeps us out of sight which, with every king and his cunt wandering around looking for us, is more the better.” 

 

It is no apology, but it is an answer, and in his own way they are the same thing. Sliding down into the little depression, she watches him for a moment and then nods, remembering her courtesies at last. “Thank you. I was curious.”  He looks at her, implacable, and says nothing as he goes about the business of making camp. She watches as he lays out the bedrolls, perhaps a little closer than she would have thought necessary, and then goes about currying that dangerous-looking destrier of his in a stony silence until finally, she can stand it no longer. 

“You were very brave”, she murmurs softly as she hunkers down on the thin roll of padded fabric, wrapped in her cloak with her saddlebag under her head. It’s a tentative peace offering, a salve to his ego after their quiet confrontation. Rifling through her bag, she finds what she’s looking for: a man’s carved signet. Sansa plays with her father’s ring, fingers anxiously tracing the wolf’s head etched into the onyx. “Thank you. For saving me. For taking me away.” 

 

He barks a laugh at her, abrasive as windswept grains of ice. “Keep chirping, little bird”, he tells her, callously dismissive. “I held a knife to your throat and pinned you down. That wasn’t saving you.” Sansa nods, recognizing the truth in his words. “No, that wasn’t”, she agrees, equanimous. The burned lip twitches as she says it and she wonders what that means. In the morning light, dried blood flaking off his ruined face, he looks monstrous. Still, appearances can be deceiving; Sansa knows that for a fact. “But telling Joffrey the lie about the nameday—that was. He would have hurt me. If you hadn’t told him…” she shudders, voice going silent as images flash through her head unbidden and unwelcome. 

Poor Ser Dontos, forced to drink his fill until he was filled with drink. Joffrey licking his earthworm lips as he watched eagerly and little Tommen and Myrcella, just children, forced to observe their elder brother’s sadism silently. And her, sitting there with horror thick in her throat, knowing this was the monster she in her ignorance had begged to marry. Sansa had blurted it out without thinking, a desperate cry of _No, you can’t_!, and Joffrey’s attention had turned to her with the razor focus of predator on prey. She had lied artlessly, knowing _he_ knew she was lying, preparing herself for pain. She didn’t think he would have killed her, not like Ser Dontos, but after what seemed like a small eternity with Joffrey, Sansa knew there were worse things than oblivion. 

 

“And then you intervened, telling him it was true", she says, voice absent with memory. "As though you were reminding him of something he should know, like water is wet and fire is ho—“, Her voice dies to a strangled silence as her cheeks flush at her misstep. She isn’t prepared for the wry snort escaping him, “—fire is hot”, he finishes with a dry chuckle. “You can say it, girl.” Her cheeks are so red they itch and she stammers, mortified, “I’m sorry—that was so thoughtless of me.” “Makes no difference to me”, he tells her, and she can see the amusement writ clear on that wretched, burned face. “I’m more aware than most how hot fire is.” 

 

The gallows humour makes her eyebrows fly up in surprise even as she tries desperately to think of a way to recover the conversation. Her consternation earns her another snort from the Hound. He’s shifted to rest on the pallet, back propped against the wall of the ditch. Sword at his side, still armour-clad, he seems impenetrable, fearless. With his good side facing her, she can see the wry smile on his lips. For a moment, with his bitterness receded, he seems different; somehow more himself. “Go to sleep, little bird”, he tells her, his own eyes closed and head tilted back. “Before you faint from that blush.” 

 

Curling up on her meagre bedding, Sansa does as he bids. Despite the grinding ache of her thighs and the sickening fear of discovery by a Lannister patrol, she quickly slips in to an exhausted sleep, and does not dream.

 


	2. The Young Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hounded by nightmares, the little bird and her dog make their way northwards and find they have more in common than they'd like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this got dark in a hurry. I've always thought these two were interesting; Sandor is obviously traumatized and given what she experienced at King's Landing, I think it'd be more unrealistic if Sansa *wasn't*. With that in mind, I think that the two of them would be good for each other. 
> 
> That said, here be dragons, and reader discretion is advised because, well, this is Game of Thrones and bad things happen to good people.

**Sandor**

Sleeping in armour’s miserable, but I’ve got practice. Years of camp life have inured me to the aches and pains of sleeping rough. Unfortunately, the little bird is used to a better-feathered nest than I can provide, and even in her sleep her discomfort is obvious. Little frowns flit over those lush lips as I realize I’ve spent far too long staring at them already; the afternoon has come and gone while I watched her sleep. Even now in the gloaming, it’s hard to tear my gaze away. 

 

 _Like a hound watching his master eat_. It’s pathetic, the way I slaver after the girl, but damned if I can look away. Even in King’s Landing, tucked away amongst the rich and the beautiful, she’d drawn the eye with her quiet poise and pretty face. Once her high lord father had been shortened some, there’d been talk about her. _Winterfell’s daughter’s ripe as summer berries_ , I’d heard a gate-guard say once, chortling. _Fuck winter_ , his companion had leered, _she’d make me come any day_. 

 

Then I’d needed to explain to the Lord Commander why I’d concussed two of the household guards. _Couldn’t have anyone speaking filth about the His Grace’s intended_ , I’d told him, and been fortunate the lie’d been bought wholesale. _They’re only lucky I didn’t shut them up permanent._ The little bird’s like to never have had a crude word in her mouth, let alone a cruel thought in her head. She deserves better than all of this. 

 

 _And what, Dog? You’ll be the one to give it to her? Protect her, keep her safe?_ Even in the privacy of my own head, I mock myself for the stupidity. _You pinned her to a bed, held a knife to her throat and said you’d take a song whether she gave it or no. She didn’t even know what that meant. You’re no better than them, believe that._ Beside me, the little bird makes a soft noise, almost a whimper. 

 

“No, no”, she mutters, tossing her head uneasily. “….not the Hound.” My gut clenches as though I’ve been stabbed. “Please, stop!” The knife twists as I stare at her. Lucky she’s not awake; can’t imagine what my face looks like now. A bloody horror, I’m sure. I can feel my lip twitch. The little bird is cruel after all, though only when she doesn’t know it. _Not like you gave her reason to be kind, cur. No surprise she thinks you’re a raper; nearly proved her right not a day gone past_. Never the sort to flinch from the truth, I swallow the facts down like whorehouse wine. I’d never wanted to be like Gregor, not ever. Hadn’t needed to be, either. The King’s purse is generous enough, and there’s always someone willing to share in the magnanimity. A silver or two buys a lot in a cathouse, even a woman who pretends this face of mine doesn’t curdle her cunny. The little bird couldn’t know—but that doesn’t make it any better. I can feel the anger churning in my belly. _Stupid little bird, if I’d wanted to take you, there’d have been opportunity enough_. She whimpers again, hands clenching and releasing, chanting “No, no no” as she tosses and turns. 

 

To hell with this. 

 

I reach out, jostle her awake. She comes to with a sharp inhale, eyes landing on me and widening for a split second. Almost quick enough to miss, had I not been with her before. But now I know the sign of distress to look for: the suddenly averted gaze as she shrinks in to herself. Making herself a smaller target, no doubt. The image of another wilting girl, long dead, flashes behind my eyes. Elynor hadn’t looked a damn thing like the little bird, except when Gregor was after her. He’d seen similar behaviour in other small, hunted things since then. _Give your head a shake, you sorry, soggy cunt_. “Get up”, I snarl at her, temper already wearing thin. Not sure who’s been more rattled by that damn dream, her or me. She hasn’t yet looked up, as still as one of the Northmen’s damn weirwoods.

 

“Did I stutter? Do as your bid, girl, we’ve got to make way.” 

She looks up at me then, eyes shadowed even as she scrambles to her feet hurriedly. “O-of course”, she stammers, and I could growl. She’s biting back the courtesy, but it hangs in the air and makes my skin itch, makes my voice rougher than I’d like it to be. She’s standing there, lacking direction. _And why should she know what to do, dog? She’s never had to do anything like this._ “Make yourself useful. Pack up the bed rolls, tight”, I tell her. “Make sure there’s no trace of us as best you’re able.” She shoots me a look of surprise, but hops to obey. That glorious hair of hers is still sooty, reeking of ash and smoke, her movements stiff from a night spent on the dirt. Even so, she’s a beauty and biddable in to the bargain. _The sort of girl songs are written about—the sort born to be someone’s hostage_. _Or punching bag._ While she breaks camp, I see to Stranger. He’s eager to be off, the night’s battle having left him with his blood heated. “There now”, I tell him, slapping a hand against his neck fondly, “we’ll be on our way soon, ornery bastard.” 

“S-Sandor?” 

 

My head snaps up like a dog on the scent, and though she doesn’t sound panicked, I hasten over to the little bird. She’s shifting back and forth, uncomfortable. I glower down at her. “What is it?” She opens her mouth to speak, goes a shade of carmine I’ve never seen before outside of battle and drops her gaze to her boots. She shuts her mouth. _Bugger this, we don’t have the time._ With twilight falling, we’ve got to move and her prevarication wastes precious moments we could be putting distance between the Lannisters and ourselves. “Spit it out, girl”, I say, and her cheeks flush darker. “I need”, she stutters, and then seems to gather her nerve around her like a cloak. “I need to make water”, she finishes with a squirm of mortification. I blink at her for a second, stunned. 

 

Then I bark out a laugh, only to see her eyes narrow for a split second in pure dislike before smoothing out to the placidity that’s been beaten into her. I shouldn’t laugh, I know. It’ll bruise the little bird’s dignity and what’s she got now but that? But it’s too late to take it back, so I soldier on gruffly. “Find a bush, little bird. No lack of them in this forest.” No point sugar-coating it; we’ll be on the road for a sennight at best, and she’d better get used to it. _Assuming we’re not captured and returned to face Joffrey’s justice_ , I remind myself grimly. Even so, I know I’ll slit her throat myself before letting her go back to them. Joffrey will only kill me slow; he won’t be half so kind to her. I swore an oath I’d keep her safe and that includes putting her beyond the King’s reach, if needs must. _If I’m quick, and very lucky, I might even be able to do for myself and follow her—though_ s _omehow, I doubt we’ll end up in the same place_. 

 

While I’ve been chewing over dark thoughts, the little bird has made her way out of sight, if not out of mind. I know she’s out there somewhere close, skirts hiked to her waist and those slim thighs bared, cheeks heated at the indecency of it all. I could follow her easily, pin her somewhere and feel the softness of her skin for myself. Nobody could stop me, least of all her. Could ruin her for Joffrey; he’d think it funny even as he killed us both for it—the Stark bitch mounted by the Lannister’s hound. _Ah, damn you, dog,_ I snarl at myself, and don’t make a move _. She’s a girl, a maiden fresh flowered. The last thing she needs is some cur sniffing about her shift. Spent too long around the little bastard, he’s made you sick as him. Anyways, forgotten that dream so quick?_ The reminder of her frightened little cry is enough to congeal the blood in my veins and set me looking for a wineskin. How is it that with all the horror she’s seen, I’m the one that haunts her nightmares? I took her away from monsters, true ones, and still she fears me. Stupid little bird, still dreaming of a handsome price to come and take her away from the snarling hound. _Stubborn though_ , I think with a wry approval. _That’d have been beaten out of most other little chits by now_. 

 

I finish saddling Stranger and help myself to some of the wine just as the little bird flits out of the forest. Clutching her satchel in her hand, cloak draped over her head, she peers up at me. “Have you been drinking?”, she asks, tone prim as any Septa’s. “Yes”, I tell her, and she shifts, nervy as an unbroken filly. “Here”, I say as I thrust the wineskin at her. “Take a swig.” She looks at the wineskin, then at me, with a look of deep misgiving. “It’ll rinse the sleep out your mouth, and make the ride more tolerable.” _The company too, no doubt_. 

“Thank you”, she murmurs, and takes a drink. As she tips the skin back, I can see the pale column of her throat exposed, the soft beat of her pulse there and the slow swallow. I want to taste her tender skin, see if it’s sweet as the cream it resembles. Instead, I hold my hand out. “Give it here, little bird.” When she does, I drain the flask dry. This seems to be shaping up to a long, dry, trip. With her riding in front of me I’ll need all the liquid courage I can spare. 

* * *

**Sansa**

There is no noise, only a deafening absence of sound pressing in around her, heavy and oppressive. Around her, courtiers with lion eyes and laughing mouths crowd around her, pressing ever inwards in hungry waves. On the dais above her, Joffrey stands with his hands on that vicious crossbow, a quiver of arrows at his side. She is kneeling. Quarrels pin her unfeeling hands to the floor and blood wells underneath her, soaking into her skirt. It runs all the way up to the apex of her thighs, where a banner of Lannister crimson trickles down to meet it. 

Amongst the gold of the courtiers, she can see flashes of black slinking through the crowds. Like wolves in the dusky woods, they appear and disappear like shadows, leaving no trace. _They’ve left me, they’ve forsaken me. They_ know _. They know I told, they know it was me. I’ve lost my wolf._ Sansa weeps silently, watching as the tears drip down her face to dilute the puddle of blood that spreads around her. Stomach wracked with guilt and dread, she watches for the shades out of the corner of her eyes. Sudden movement from the side forces her head to snap up and she sees the knights of the Kingsguard shove a grey-clad figure in to the hall. When he falls, knees making no noise against the stone, her entire frame shudders. Joffrey looks delighted and his mouth moves as though speaking. She has never seen him look so happy. Sansa’s stomach plummets to her slippers; beside her, Sandor Clegane shifts his head and meets her gaze. 

 

Sound rushes back in a cacophony, whispers rustling around her like insect wings. Her skin crawls. Joffrey speaks, and this time she hears him. 

“The traitor hound and his bitch”, the little monster crows with delight, making the skin under her arms prickle with cold sweat. “Running away in the night, rutting by the roadside.” Sansa stirs herself to protest but at her side, Sandor shakes his head and her mouth closes quickly. “A matched set, aren’t they? Or nearly just”, and the crowd heaves forward on a laugh. 

 

“Ser Meryn”, the King says, and Sansa wants to whimper. “Bring a brazier.” 

 

Terror blossoms in her and she begins to struggle in earnest, widening the wounds in her hands further. She screams, deathly afraid of the coals Ser Meryn places in front of her. The shallow vessel radiates heat like a forge. Sansa thinks she had once loved flames. During the summer snows, she would settle herself by a hearth and watch the flakes fall outside her window as she practiced her needlework. The fire had been warmth, burning aspen the scent of home. She knows these embers will bring her no such comfort. 

At her side Sandor looks sick to tears, his breathing shallow. She can smell the sharp reek of fear sweat, but isn’t sure if it’s his or hers. At this point, it does not seem to matter. They will both be dead soon.

 

“Dog”, Joffrey says, and he smiles maliciously as he points the crossbow at Sansa’s womb, betrayer that it is. “Burn her.” 

 

 _Oh, Gods_ , she thinks in mute horror. _He can’t. He can’t make the Hound do this; it’s beyond cruel_. The Hound had only ever protected her, had only ever kept her safe. Roughly, certainly, but without him her pretty chirping would have only been her downfall. “No”, Sandor says, even as she knows it will accomplish nothing. They will hurt, be forced to hurt each other. There is no escaping Joffrey’s whims, not here. Not now. Sansa thinks of the black-haired shadows flickering through the crowds, but knows better than to expect rescue from that quarter. Life is not a song. 

 

“Burn her”, the king repeats coldly, voice shrill with mania. “Or I will have you killed, and I will make her watch.” He smiles, nastily, “The fire will seem a mercy, then.” 

 

 _Give him what he wants, and spare yourself some pain._  

 

But what is the worst pain? Her face has started to sweat from the heat, drops landing on the coals with a sickening sizzle. She thinks she can smell burning hair from where strands have fallen in. Sandor’s face, pale as weirwood and eyes empty as a swordless sheath, tells her this will be horror. She has caused so much pain already; he has survived so much of it. She will be used to give him more. It is perverse.

“ _No, no_!”, she says, panicked. “Please, Your Grace”, she begs, mustering every one of her courtesies to keep from retching. “Please. I’ll do anything you say, anything you ask. Anything. Just please, _not the Hound_.” She can’t be responsible for breaking the strongest man she knows. He had cared for her, protected her. He had saved her life, thrice over. 

 

There is no pain in her hands from the crossbow bolts; there may be no pain in her face from the burns. She knows, instinctively, that he will receive no such relief. 

 

Joffrey only laughs, and suddenly there are a wall of swords around them. The Kingsguard bristle with them, leaving no avenue for escape. Ser Meryn looks down at her impassively, and Sansa knows that if Sandor does not do as he’s bid, Ser Meryn will. It’s nothing personal—she’ll merely be the rod used to beat the dog into obedience. “ _No, no, no_ ”, she says, looking from Joffrey to Ser Meryn and finally, to Sandor. She hopes he understands she does not blame him. This is not his fault, only Joffrey’s sadism. “I’m sorry, little bird”, Sandor tells her, voice wrecked. She can only imagine his dread. The King’s twisted cruelty has placed them in a trap; they ran, and they were snared. “I promised to keep you safe”, he says, cradling the fine bones of her skull. “I failed. I’m sorry.” He cups her cheek in his big hand with aching tenderness. 

She looks up at him, sees tears streaked down his cheeks. Sansa prepares for agony. Beyond him, Ser Meryn’s smile has become Joffrey’s, and Joffrey’s has become full of blood-stained teeth. “ _Please, stop!_ ”, she pleads brokenly, but Joffrey is as merciless as a conflagration. Suddenly, the hand on her head tightens as the one on her cheek jerks sharply. Sansa is distantly aware of her neck snapping, a sudden pain—

 

—that suddenly evaporates as she jerks awake, a sharp gasp of air her abrupt introduction to the waking world. She has never been so happy to smell horse and unwashed man. With the dream still riding her nerves, she shakes like a leaf and pulls in to herself. She cannot seem to stop quaking and so seeks to minimize the evidence of her weakness. His eyes look down at her, distant. She wonders what her dream must have looked like to him. 

 

“Get up”, he snarls at her, and Sansa finds it takes her a moment to relearn to move her limbs. She is frozen stiff, movement alien to her. The nightmare rattles around her head and the shuddering continues. Still, she would rather hear his snarls than his apologies. “Did I stutter? Do as your bid, girl, we’ve got to make way.” That sets her to moving, the gruff rasp finally chasing away the last of the shakes. She still feels haunted, but she puts it out of her mind and does as she’s told. She’s always been good at that. “O-of course”, she says, and hates herself when her voice breaks. She wishes desperately she were stronger, braver, more like her lady mother. _She’d_ never shown weakness, never let that mask of queenly composure slip. Sansa suddenly misses her mother so acutely it steals her breath away. “Make yourself useful. Pack up the bed rolls, tight”, Sandor says, interrupting her reverie. “Make sure there’s no trace of us as best you’re able.” She looks at him in surprise; the tone had been almost gentle there, if brusque. She had almost forgotten his capacity for civility, but it’s a soothing balm for her nerves. For all that the nightmare had rattled her, Sandor had been a reassuring presence in it. _Little fool_ , she chides herself, _it was only a nightmare. And he killed you in it, no less_. Still, given the choice between the clean death of a broken neck and Joffrey’s little games, she knows which she would pick. She can only hope that if it comes to that, Sandor will choose the same. Death no longer frightens her—she would rather be with her Father than with His Grace. 

 

Pushing her dark thoughts aside, she does as she’s told and breaks camp. With no practice to speak of, she errs on the side of caution and squashes everything down as tightly as she can. He’s right; they need to make way and she won’t be the cause of further delay. Not with the dream still dogging her heels. While she’s managing camp, he’s tending to the horse— _Stranger_ , she thinks with a little smile at the name. _He_ would _name his horse that_. “We’ll be on our way soon, ornery bastard”, he tells the destrier, and suddenly the thought of bouncing up and down on a full bladder seems agonizing. But she doesn’t know what to do; she’s never travelled this roughly before. Even on the cavalcade south from Winterfell, privies had been set up for the Queen and her ladies. 

 

“Sandor?”, she asks softly, and he makes his way over with alacrity. “What is it”, he growls at her. She shifts, her need becoming pressing. She knows Septa Mordane would disapprove, but there’s no alternative. She must embarrass herself now, or humiliate herself later. _Even Queen Rhaenys must have suffered this indignity_ , she tells herself, _and anyways, Septa Mordane is dead_.  “Spit it out, girl”, he snarls at her, and she steels her nerve. “I need”, she starts and then freezes. The words won’t come. _Grow up_ , Sansa chides herself, _you’re being silly. He’s a soldier. This is necessity, not indecency_. She pulls her shoulders back like she’d seen her father’s men at arms do, and drapes dignity around herself like a shield. “I need to make water”, she says, and is pleased to hear no quaver in her voice. _Good, there’s a spine in there somewhere_. Still, she squirms for just a moment. She can only imagine what her mother would have say about this. _Perhaps better not mention it._

 

Of course, the Gods are rarely so kind as to allow her a victory, even a petty one. Sandor laughs in her face. Sansa can feel her eyes narrow before she schools her expression into the court mask she’s so intimately familiar with. “Find a bush, little bird”, he tells her, gesturing at the thicket above their ditch with a sharp jerk of his chin. “No lack of them in this forest.” She thinks he must have had his sense of decorum beaten out of him in the practice yard. All he’s got left is a dry sarcasm that she tells herself is hardly appealing. _Still_ , she thinks to herself, feeling a little foolish, _it was rather an obvious solution. It wouldn’t kill you to have an independent thought every now and again, even if you never did a thing with it_. 

 

She wanders into the woods, deep enough for privacy and close enough for swift rescue if necessary. She wonders if perhaps she’s gone mad. Her flight from King’s Landing would certainly qualify; after all, what lady would leave the comforts of a castle to squat in the woods? She hunkers down, shoving the fabric of her skirts out of the way irately. _One who had to share it with Joffrey_ , she reminds herself. Dream images flash behind her eyes again and her hands shake. Sansa forces them to steady. She will not allow him to control her; she will not allow herself to fear him. She knows the trick to dealing with Joffrey. _He can make me look, but he can’t make me see_. Then, as now, the key is simply to let the feelings pass her by. _Water under ice_ , she thinks, _placid and unyielding_. He is a threat, but fear will only play to his benefit. She has the second-strongest man in Westeros at her side, and her brother has an army mustered. All she has to do is survive long enough for the former to deliver her to the latter. She survived in King’s Landing friendless and alone. _Mostly alone,_ she amends. She can survive a while longer in company. 

 

Finished her business, she kicks leaves over the spot and makes her way to camp. Sandor has finished saddling the horse, but the wineskin in his hand tells her how he’s chosen to spend his free moments. She remembers, vividly, the mess of the previous evening. She remembers all the times wine has made him speak to her and all the times wine has made him snarl at her. He is unpredictable while drunk, and that is troubling. “Have you been drinking?”, she asks, disapproval clear in her voice. _Let him know. He swore to keep me safe; how can he manage that while drunk or wine-sick_?  

“Yes”, he admits, voice free of even the slightest remorse. “Here”, he says as he thrusts the skin at her, “take a swig.” Sansa is not a heavy drinker; truthfully, she’s never acquired a taste for anything stronger than an Arbor Gold. The sour red wine he prefers might as well be blood for how palatable she finds it. She looks up at him, reluctant. “It’ll rinse the sleep out your mouth”, he says, and she runs her tongue over her teeth. She can taste fuzziness, no doubt left over from her retching in the stables. “And make the ride more tolerable”, he adds, and she wonders at his momentary gallantry. Her thighs do burn after their desperate flight, and her body aches from sleeping on the hard ground. She suspects this will be another uncomfortable evening, and his forethought is appreciated—if surprising. 

“Thank you”, she murmurs. _Courtesies are a lady’s armour_ , she remembers distantly, and takes a gulp. Swishing the wine around does remove the worst of the taste, as he’d promised, and the warm laxness that settles in her muscles helps the aches. _How curious,_ she thinks vaguely _. He looks out for me, and so rarely admits to it_. “Give it here, little bird”, she hears. She’s been rude, she knows, lapsing into her own thoughts and not sharing. Undoubtedly he needs it more than she does; he looks a little wan. In any case, the single gulp has set her to rights and she exhales slowly. He drains the rest in one go and she holds her counsel as he lifts her up in front of the pommel, swinging up behind her with the ease of long practice. 

 

Sansa can feel the length of him pressed to her from the crown of her head at his shoulders to the bracket of his thighs behind hers. She knows for a certainty that this is the closest she has ever been to a man she wasn’t related to. _No sense in being shy_ , she reminds herself, _he’s seen you stripped_. He’d given her his own white cloak and she’d clutched it to her chest like mercy. It had been, even if Lord Tyrion had been the one to call a half to Joffrey’s humiliations. _He couldn’t do more_ , she thinks. _Lord Tyrion is the King’s own uncle and Hand, and even he was barely able to manage Joffrey_. Sandor was a member of the Kingsguard, and even more at His Grace’s mercy than most. _Moreso even than myself, perhaps. After all,_ you _were a valuable hostage. He was just a hound_. She loathes Joffrey so much for a moment that her teeth grind together painfully. Bitterly, she wishes she had fangs to gnash, or perhaps sink into his Joff’s tender throat. 

 

She thinks she could acquire a taste for sour red if the cask tapped was Joffrey’s. 

 

Hours pass in silence as they ride north-west. Sansa fishes out bread and hard cheese from the saddlebag and makes a makeshift meal; she shares with Sandor, who eats it one-handed as he rides. They do not stop, barely slow to a trot. The night becomes ever darker as they pass the hour of the wolf, and the silence becomes unnerving. _It is so different from the noise of King’s Landing_. She’s a girl of crowds, castle born and raised. The solitude rattles her, and occasionally she shifts closer to her companion. He makes an odd noise once, almost a wheeze, and she wonders if perhaps she’s jabbed him with her elbow. _Joffrey always said I was bony_ , she thinks, but ultimately dismisses the idea as laughable. _He’s massive. I could no more harm him than I can see the future_. The night wears on, eerie and tedious by turns, and she amuses herself by picking out the constellations. 

 

“There’s the Stallion, and there’s the Crone’s Lantern. There’s the Ghost”, she whispers as her voice dies off. She thinks suddenly of a red-eyed puppy with snow-white fur, her Lady’s own brother for all that Jon had only ever been her father’s son. She regains her composure and continues, “And there’s the Moonmaid.” She tilts her head back to point her out, head pressed back against Sandor’s chest plate . “You can see the red wanderer inside her too, just there”, Sansa adds. She traces the image with her eyes, still too frightened of the horse to release her grip on Sandor’s arm. Behind her, Sandor exhales a strangled breath. She wonders if perhaps he’s tired—or more probably, tired of her—and goes silent again. “Am I annoying you? Should I stop?” 

He rumbles a laugh she feels in her chest. “Keep chirping if it brings you joy, little bird”, he rasps. She smiles into the darkness. “Just be quiet about it. We may be alone, but voices carry here.” 

She nods, though she’s not sure where _here_ is, exactly. “Where might that be?”, she asks, biting off the _ser_ at the last moment. “Stony Sept, or nearabouts”, comes the quiet reply. Sansa makes the map in her head easily. That would put them north-west of the city, following the river up from Blackwater Rush. _The God’s Eye_ , she hears in Maester Luwin’s voice. Memories of old lessons flood her mind, and she shifts closer again. “And where are you taking me?”, she asks, voice soft. She knows Riverrun is this way. She also knows that she’s ignorant, and he could just as easily be taking her further west—and there lie the Lannisters. She would have no idea, not until the mountains rose in front of them. By then it would be far too late. Still, she trusts him implicitly not to betray her. There would be no point; she’s a traitor’s daughter, but he’s a deserter from the Kingsguard. Joffrey might be a Baratheon, but she seriously doubts the Warden of the West bothers with disobedient dogs. Tywin Lannister is not known for his forgiving nature. She thinks back to King’s Landing, to his words. _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

 

“To Riverrun, little bird”, Sandor says, and Sansa feels warmth blossom in her belly. “To your family.”  

She does not bother to stifle her sigh of relief. “I thought so”, she murmurs, and for a moment thinks she can feel him relax behind her, like a puppet with the strings suddenly cut. 

* * *

**Sandor**

Dawn’s breaking by the time we settle in for our rest. Now that we’re off the main road, there’s less risk of discovery but more of injury. _Stranger breaks a leg here, it’ll be a long walk to anywhere_. _With the little bird striding about bow-legged and wincing at every step, might be winter falls before we make it a league_. Still, she doesn’t say a peep. She’d fallen silent after her little astronomy lesson, eyes roving through the dark as though seeking out the creatures living in the underbrush. 

As for myself, I’d discovered a more painful way for a man to die than even burning. With her warm weight in front of me, her pretty voice chirping about the red wanderer in the moonmaid— _And what the bloody hell was_ that _about_?—and the slow sway of our hips on the horses’ back, the night’s ride was a torture designed by a Lysene whore. _Vicious little bird,_ I commend her, _and all worse for her complete ignorance_. 

 

I lead us through the forests down to the God’s Eye, tethering Stranger in a clearing well-hidden from the road and any boats that might be trolling the river. The little bird goes about making herself useful unpacking pallets, setting them up beside each other and fetching food and drink from the saddlebags I’ve tossed down. She still won’t go near Stranger, but seeing as how he pins his ears back like a pissed pit-dog whenever she comes close, it appears the distrust is mutual. Still, I’d trained him to be vicious, so I can’t fault him for it. She looks about to gather rocks, but I shake my head. “No fire”, I tell her, and she looks at me suddenly with a distant gaze. I expect her eyes to fall on the burnt half of my ugly mug, but instead she meets my eyes for a moment and then slides hers away. “Of course”, she murmurs, and now I feel obliged to explain. “Can’t risk it”, I add, cursing myself for going soft. “Might as well hang out banners announcing our residence.” 

Her eyes brighten then, blue as cornflowers, and she nods. “Ah, yes”, she says, voice cautious. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me, I was thoughtless.” I give her a scowl. “None of those courtesies, little bird, we both shit in the woods here.” She gawps at me. “That’s very crude!”, she says, aghast, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. Could be I said it simply to see her reaction. I may have been a soldier first, but I was Cesei’s shield for longer, and the Lady Lannister was not one for crass conversation. Or conversation at all. _Not much for speaking to the help, that one_. I find needling the little bird to see her ruffle her feathers much more enjoyable, in any case. She blushes, pretty as a picture. _Something Cersei wouldn’t have the shame or grace to do._

 

 _Pulling pigtails, no matter how you rationalize it,_ I tell myself _. Never mind green, she’s made you a child_. The irony makes me smirk, and I hear another strangled little noise from the little bird. When I cant my gaze over her way, she’s assiduously looking off to the middle distance. _Attempting to ignore me, no doubt_ , I think, and grin all the wider. The further we get from King’s Landing, the freer I feel. The little bird is soon settled on her pallet, humming as she hacks apart hard cheese and black bread for our supper. I think perhaps she feels it, too. She’d certainly thawed after I’d told her we were off to Riverrun. 

 

“Here”, she says softly, handing me a heel of bread with some cheese tucked inside. She’s a gracious lady and so accompanies supper with a half-full flask of wine. When I feel it lighter than usual, I glare blackly at her. It’s the sort of expression that’s made green squires scamper like hares from a hunt, but she simply looks back at me with that serene smile of hers. “Little bird”, I warn her, and her eyes flicker down for a second, and then snap back to mine as though she’s come to a decision. “Apologies”, she murmurs, “but I expect we’ve a long trip ahead of us, and we’re running low on wine.” There’s a lie tucked away in her courtesies, but I decide not to point it out. Whatever her reasons, she’s not wrong—and fool that I am, if acting the chatelaine of this little adventure makes her hum prettily under her breath as she works, then I’ll survive on a half-flask of wine a night. 

 

 _Puppy’s gone soft_ , a voice that sounds like Gregor mocks me, and I growl “Shut up”. I realize my mistake immediately as she pulls back as though scalded, hurt clear in her eyes. _Ah hell, well done, dog_. There’s no way to explain this one in a way that sounds sane, and a highborn lady running screaming through the woods is like to attract the wrong kind of attention. Still, I can’t stand the look in her eyes. _Soft as a whelped bitch_ , he says, but I put it aside to focus on the girl seated across from me. “Apologies, little bird”, I rasp out. _In for a copper, in for the dragon_. “I didn’t mean you”. 

She blinks but doesn’t immediately shrink away from my insanity. “Well, you couldn’t have meant the horse”, she replies softly, and I blink. Was that a jape? _Sure you’re gone mad now, if you think the little bird’s sense of humour wasn’t beaten out of her_. “No”, I concede, wondering how in the hells to broach this. “It’s only—occasionally _Ser_ Gregor likes to come for a visit.” I tap my burnt temple, lips twisted in a horrific grin. _Well done, puppy,_ he hisses like searing coals, summoned up from my own nightmares, _she’ll fear you for a madman…or pity you for the broken thing you are_. 

 

She pauses, watching me with blue eyes depthless as an autumn sky. She’s so still she could be a statue, the Maiden carved of alabaster and left in a Sept. Or perhaps, with that flame-coloured hair and milk-pale skin, she’s more a young weirwood, limbs supple as a sapling. _Or might be she’s a wolf_ , I think, _watching with uncanny stillness, passing judgement_. 

 

“I understand”, she murmurs, breaking the silence. “Occasionally, His _Grace_ does the same.” She mimics my gesture, tapping a delicate forefinger against her temple. I feel the air leave my lungs in a rush, deflating me. For all I regret my inaction, and despise Joffrey’s cruelty, there’s a relief in knowing that she understands even as it curdles my stomach. _Craven_ , I sneer at myself, _wishing anguish on the girl so as to have company in your misery_. Suddenly, she shifts into my line of vision, closer than I’ve seen her off horseback. 

“Sandor”, she murmurs, and rests her fingertips lightly on my mailed arm. I’m not sure what she’s seen cross my face, but as ever, she reacts to it with aching tenderness. _Ah, little bird, you’re a proper princess out of some tale. Shame there’s no Dragonknight to carry you to safety, just a dog to growl and bark_. She takes a breath, steeling herself. “Thank you for telling me.” She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “I’m glad. And… I am…relieved. I know it’s wrong, but I am…grateful to know I’m not going mad. That I’m not the only one.” 

 

I blink at her. She’s admitted to my own thoughts, plucked clear out of my head—and somehow makes them harmless. I wonder at her gift, even as I mistrust it on principle. “No, little bird”, I answer her. “We’re all mad here.” I try to tamp down the bitterness in my tone, and don’t quite succeed. “Not mad”, she answers back, resolute. “ _Managing_.” 

 

 _Isn’t that the truth_. 

 

She looks at me for a moment longer, and then slides her little cup of wine across to my bedroll. We’ve come to sit across from each other, hidden under the heavy boughs of a soldier pine. “Does it help?”, she asks, and I nod sharply. “Sometimes. Most times.” I think to the fire, to the wine I drank that did nothing to stamp down the fear. “Not always.” 

“Not that night”, she finishes, and I hang my head in shame. “No, not then.” 

“I think I understand that, too”, she admits. I wonder at these unexpected confessions, but a dog knows better than to bite the hand that feeds it—though speaking technically, I may have done just that. “I think if wine could make me forget Joffrey, I’d fill the Water Gardens with it and swim until I grew gills.” I swallow hard at the idea of the little bird in a pool of any sort, and force myself to think boring, practical thoughts. “Have you tried?”, I ask, surprising myself. I’m not one for conversation, but the little bird has her way with me. Without the wine haze and away from the pressure of King’s Landing, I’m far more capable of keeping a civil tongue in my head. “Yes”, she admits, and I blink at her. “I tried it once, and was so sick I thought I would die. And then Joffrey said I looked ill and ugly the next day. He told me to get out of his sight until I could be presentable.” She goes still for a second, and then breathes out a little sigh. “And it only made me sad. It wasn’t worth it.” 

“Rarely is, little bird”, I admit, and quaff her cup. I realize after I have that there’s already a hint of moisture around the rim; she’s had a tiny sip. The idea of my mouth being where hers has been only recently is a heady thrill, and I can’t help the rush of want that thrums through my veins. I’m only a man, and fallible as any. _Go on, cur, relish it. It’s the closest thing to a kiss you’ll get from this one_. 

 

“How far are we?”, she asks, drawing my attention away from her lips and in to the present. “A few days hard ride”, I answer, though it truly could be as long as a sennight if we tarry. “We’ll ride at night as we’ve been, camp during the day. Means we’ll needs must go slower, but less chance of meeting friends on the road.” She nods, solemn as a Silent Sister for a second. “Thank you”, she whispers suddenly. “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble on my behalf.” “Trouble, she says”, I snap, and watch the blush rise on her cheeks. “That’s a pretty little understatement.” 

She quirks her lips in a there-and-gone smile, fast as a cardinal through trees. “It sounded better than _acute risk to limb, liberty and life_.” “You can sugar-coat a shit, little bird, but that doesn’t make it smell sweeter.” That earns me a strangled little laugh, and a pair of assessing eyes aimed my way. “I think you say these things to scandalize me”, she chides. “Yes”, I tell her, and she goes even pinker. “Why?”, she asks, and I’m suddenly caught in a trap of my own making. _Walked yourself into that one, imbecile_. “Why did you risk all to take me?” 

 

Ah, thank the Gods, a question I can answer. “Even a dog gets tired of being kicked.” She looks at me as though peering through leaded glass, trying to divine the deeper meaning. The truth of it is, I’d had enough. I’d had enough of serving a gibbering madman in the making. I’d had enough of watching him become more and more my brother every time he opened that cunt mouth of his. I’d had enough of standing by, watching the only innocent in that damned Keep be beaten for Joffrey’s entertainment. I’d had enough of it all. 

Her gaze never leaves mine, assessing me. I’d told her once a dog could smell a lie—but I’d forgotten, at the time, that she was a wolf. She seems more herself in the woods than she ever did in King’s Landing. Perhaps that’s bringing out this new boldness. “And what will you do once you have delivered me?”, she asks. I snap my eyes to hers, but her eyes are shuttered and she keeps her own council. She’s listening attentively, soaking everything in like the sponges that wash up on the Western beaches. It occurs to me, then, that she’s heard much and more as a hostage. _She’ll be dangerous in her own right, one day_ , I think suddenly with no little degree of satisfaction. _Good_. 

 

“If this Young Wolf has the wits the gods gave a toad, he’ll make me a lordling and beg me to enter his service”, I tell her, growing suddenly more sure of my choice. There’s an abundance of Kings to serve these days and all things told, I’d rather a boy wolf than a lioness. _What’s a dog to do with lions, anyhow?_

The more I think on it, the better it sounds. I don’t much mind the cold, and the Northmen have no knights. Robert had said as much on the journey north and the queen had scoffed, but the thought appeals now more than ever. “He _needs_ me”, I continue, iron certainty in my tone. I know my worth, and it’s about 40,000 gold dragons and a white cloak, “though he may not know it yet. Maybe I’ll even kill Gregor for him, he’d like that.” 

 

The little bird mutters something mutinous under her breath, and I bark out a startled laugh. “Well struck, girl—most people would”. For all her courtesies, she’s got a sly wit about her. She nestles into her cloak on the pallet, looking nothing so much as a nesting bird. “I will vouch for you”, she blurts out suddenly. _She can’t be serious. The little bird would vouch for me? Silly little thing with her head full of pretty stories… and yet_. The idea of serving her brother is an appealing one, and would allow me to stay close to her. That’s something I want bad, though I know better than to poke at the reason. “I will tell my brother and lady mother of your kindness, of how you kept me safe from Joffrey. I will tell them of your counsel after my father—“, she trails off, undoubtedly lost in an ugly memory. “I will tell them you were a true k—“, for a second, the air seems to hum with a single unsaid word, and then she nods her head, resolute. “A true _friend_. You were the only friend I had there. I won’t let them hurt you, nor send you away.” 

 

I gawp at her. I’ve never been anyone’s friend. Butcher, soldier, comrade, sworn shield—yes. These and more. But friend? That’s a new one. I look at her, twisting the fabric of her cloak around in her hands. _Friend_. I mull it over in my mind. I’m certain I don’t want to be the little bird’s _friend_. Still, it’s more and better than I deserve. “As you say, little bird”, I say, and make my voice gentle as I can. Her defence is touching, though I don’t know that it’ll do much good. Still, no need to spoil it for her. Something about the girl brings out the boy in me. 

 _Weak, soft, weak. Meat for the butcher. Weak, snivelling, a mewling cunt crying for Mother. Not a wolf, not a hound, not even a dog. Just a_ puppy _, always a puppy_. _You know what I do to puppies._ I can hear Gregor again, eating at my nerves like maggots on dead flesh. My lip twitches, and suddenly I feel the brush of little fingers against my arm again. “ _Enough_ ”, she says softly, sternly. “He’s not here. You’re here, and we are going to Riverrun.” She looks up at me from the nest she’s made on the meagre pallet. “Rest now.” I should be alarmed at how easily she reads me. I'm not. I know the girl won't do me harm, steadfast sweet thing that she is. Likely thinks she's the Good Queen Alysanne come again. _Could be she's not wrong, if ever she gets a chance_. 

She’s not a queen yet. Nevertheless, her voice is commanding as steel, gentle as silk, and possesses an innate regality Cersei in all her golden glory could never hope to match. A faithful dog, I do as I’m bid, and follow my mistress’ command.


	3. If I Were A Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa determines to know her travelling companion better, much to his dismay.

**Sansa**

 

He rests uneasily. Sansa knows already that Sandor is is not a heavy sleeper, but had expected a life of battlefields and war to be the cause. Now she knows better. _Occasionally_ Ser _Gregor likes to come for a visit_ , he had told her, and her heart aches for him. He has been haunted by these uneasy nights since childhood. She’s not so naive as to think him innocent—knows intimately that he is not—but that doesn’t quash the empathy she feels. She knows what it’s like to live with no escape, her own mind a home for monsters. 

 

She thinks of her dream, and her fingers curl in to impotent little fists. 

 

Joffrey had only been her intended. Gregor had been his _brother_. She thinks of Robb, funny and kind, and imagines the betrayal she would feel if he ever harmed her. She feels sick to her stomach with the thought. While she knows that Sandor had never idolized Gregor as her brothers did Robb, she thinks he could not have expected such casual cruelty from him. That sort of brutality is beyond a child’s comprehension, even one as battered as Sandor Clegane must have been. It makes her eyes prick with tears, but she takes a breath and smothers them down. Her tears have never accomplished anything, and will do her no favours here.

 

She thinks she understands him better now. 

 

As she curls on her pallet, she watches him. It is rare that she is awake and he is not, and she savours the solitude of the early morning like a treat. For a while, her thoughts wander. From dreams of home to the glass gardens; from the glass gardens to the small, tart lemons that grew there; from the lemons to the little lemon cakes she had loved so well; from the lemon cakes to feeding Lady crumbs under the table; from feeding Lady under the table to the old King’s words: 

 

 _Get her a dog_ , he’d told Father after he’d killed her. _She’ll be happier for it_. She had despised them all in that moment; him for his callousness, Father for his duty, Arya for her wildness. She had wanted her Lady, not a dog. 

 

She thinks of dogs then, of the three on the Clegane shield. _Sandor’s grandfather was master of the hounds for Tytos Lannister_. She thinks of the Clegane kennels, wonders if there are still hounds there. She doubts it. Sansa wonders if Sandor ever had a puppy as a child. She looks up at him where he’s propped against a tree with his sword at his side, face furrowed even in sleep. His lip twitches occasionally. _I know what that means now_ , she thinks to herself suddenly, and realizes she might be one of the few people alive who does. _Whenever his thoughts go dark. But it happens so often…_

 

The thought troubles her, but she can no more change that fact than she can stop her own nightmares. _We manage_ , she thinks resolutely, _and will endure what we must_. She wonders when they went from being strangers to being a _we_ , and cannot place it exactly. It’s all been so much, and in such a short time. They had both been prisoners of the Lannisters in their own ways, and had suffered for it. _I don’t mind_ , Sansa decides. _It is nice to have a friend_. Still, she thinks being away from the lions for even this short length of time has done him good. Though he is still callous, and while he can be cruel, the more distance he puts between them and the castle the less venom seems to suffuse his words. _Certainly, we seem to have reached an understanding_ , she thinks, remembering the startled bark of laughter her muttered invective had earned her. She hadn’t meant to say it. It had escaped her quick as any flitting sparrow. Her quick words have always been her most dangerous trait; in King’s Landing, it had caused her nothing but pain. Here, with a different man, it seems safer. The thought of the Mountain makes her lips curl in a snarl she is glad her companion cannot see. Sansa knows she is not by nature a violent person, but she knows in her heart that monsters deserve to be slain. She sends a prayer to the Warrior that Sandor gets his wish; that her brother will allow him to meet his on the battlefield. 

 

 _Perhaps I am a wolf after all. The deeper into the woods we go, the less courtly I become._ For some reason, the thought doesn’t bother her as deeply as perhaps it should. 

 

Thus satisfied, she curls up on her pallet and lets her eyes close. 

 

The dream comes upon her like falling through lake ice; a sharp stabbing pain and then an aching numbness. 

 

A furious scream breaks through the cotton-wool in her ears and the sound of a shattering vase makes her flinch. “Hush, my love”, she hears Cersei say, and Sansa’s blood curdles in her veins. Darkness fades away to show a room swathed in crimson, bright morning sunlight glinting garishly off gold decorations. A four-poster bed dominates the room, swathed in brocade and silks. She knows instinctively these are the King’s chambers, and she prays that she can remain hidden from the lioness and her cub. For there indeed stands Joffrey, his face an angry red she’s only been unlucky to see once or twice. _Always to my detriment_ , she thinks, and wonders who will catch his rage now. 

“You must be exhausted”, the queen says, a hiss in her voice. “I’m not”, comes his shrill response. “She’s gone! The little Stark bitch, and the Hound besides.” “Yes, but we’ll catch them soon.” 

 

“I want her dead!” 

 

She has never seen Joffrey so furious, nor Cersei so pale. She seems ready to commit murder, and Sansa knows she is the cause of it. “And they will be”, the queen soothes, her face a rictus as she smoothes a hand down Joff’s arm. “There are patrols up and down the road. There is nowhere they will be able to hide, and once they’re found, you’ll be able to do what you like with them.” “He was mine”, Joffrey snarls, “and she _took_ him!” There is rage in his voice, but Sansa hears hurt in it as well. Her blood runs cold; a wounded animal is the most dangerous kind. 

 

 _Oh, Gods, the Hound was his childhood guard._  

 

The thought makes a dull horror rise in her throat. She thinks of the looks Joffrey gave him whenever he made his cruel little japes and recalls how he never commanded Sandor to hit her, despite giving all the others a turn. Was it his esteem he sought? She thinks of Robert, a drunkard and a philanderer, unfaithful to his wife and queen. It had been common knowledge at court that the royal marriage was fraught. Drunk with bitterness and sour red wine, Cersei herself had said as much to Sansa after her flowering. No surprise, then, that the son would admire the only example of constancy in his life. She thinks of the old king bloated with drink, lecherous and crude. Any muscle enough to wield a war hammer had long since gone to fat in his indolence and gluttony. She can see where Joffrey would find the appeal in his scarred sworn shield—and now she’s gone and stolen him away in the night like a thieving little magpie. 

 

 _Good_ , she thinks viciously as Joffrey throws a cut crystal bowl full of grapes against the wall. _You stole my wolf. I’ll take your dog in turn_. 

 

Joffrey rages and paces, crossbow in hand, while Cersei tries to soothe his fury. “Just think, my love. Think of the Stark girl in your grasp. But you must be calm, or everyone will see they’ve pulled a trick on you. You’re the King, you must never drop your composure.” 

“Don’t lecture me, I am the King!”, he shrieks, and Sansa sees Cersei’s lips thin to an angrily pale line. “It was not a lecture, Joffrey, only counsel.” “You _counselled_ me to marry the little bitch”, he sneers at her, eyes cold with disdain. “Yes”, Cersei says, “I did, because her father was _beloved_ foster-brother to the King and he commanded it be so.” Joffrey’s eyes narrow, finger twitching towards the trigger of the crossbow. “But now the traitorous little bitch is gone, and her brother is in open rebellion. Perhaps there are better matches to be made.” Her voice is oily, and Sansa ruffles her feathers as though to shake off the grease. 

 

 _Fly_ , some strange instinct commands her, and Sansa leaps off the balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast. For a moment she plummets towards the cobbles until she spreads her wings and catches purchase on the air. She soars on the warm air rising from clay roofs baking in the sun. Far below her, her shadow expands, growing massive in size and monstrous in scope. She soars easily, her wingspan vast. Around her the air shimmers with heat and she flies higher still, until King’s Landing looks like a map below her, the Red Keep just a child’s toy. From here, she thinks she can see the whole of Westeros painted in shades of umber and gold as autumn wends to a close. 

 _See_ , the instinct instructs her and she looks to the North, where the chill blue of ice slinks down inexorably. She knows in her bones that it is the dead of winter, and from her vantage point she can see it consume everything it touches. The world becomes barren and above her the sky darkens to an inky blackness. There is no moon to light her flight, no stars to guide her; only an unnatural darkness ominous as pitch. _This is what remains_ , some primal instinct tells her. _This is Winter, and it is here._

She flies on, drawn ever northwards by a tugging in her breast, in her gut. Her wings bite into the air, seeking purchase, but it becomes harder to stay aloft. She struggles. The war has touched every corner of the land, leaving it stained and dark. Cities and towns glow with the fire of a hundred thousand hearths. As she watches, their lights extinguish one by one under the crawling darkness. Below her, she sees the Neck swathed in the red of spilled blood. She flies on and sees Winterfell a smoking ruin in the distance. _If I look back, I am lost_ , she hears a woman say, and so she does not dare. As she passes, the wolves below her set up a howling chorus. Their voices rise high and eerie in the thin air and ahead of her, the Wall approaches. Black crows flap away from crumbled towers, and still she flies onwards. Over the Wall and past it, over lands that have never seen spring. Below her, the ice groans and creaks. She is a child of the north and no stranger to the ice and its songs, but it keens as though it were alive. As though it were aware. 

 _Know_ , the instinct hisses, and she peers down. A glint catches her eyes, the only spark of light she can see. Cold and remote as stars, it draws her in, pulls her down. Though she still flies high above, she feels another mind push at hers. Inhuman and ancient, it watches her with assessing coldness, implacable and unyielding. Her breath freezes in her lungs, falling down like shards of ice. _We are the terrors in the dark_ , an alien voice crackles in her head like rotten ice, _but what are you?_  

 

Sansa wakes with a stifled scream.

 

Beside her, Sandor jerks into wakefulness silently, his hand on his sword hilt. “What is it?”, he snarls at her, but she’s too far gone to answer, quaking with a primal terror that she can barely understand. Sunset has started to fall, and her hands shake at the thought of the night to come. “Girl!”, he barks at her, and she meets his gaze with fearful eyes. “A..a..”, She trails off, remembering the cold gaze of the creature, a being too ancient and terrible to name. “I, only”, she cannot collect herself, and he reaches across their pallets, grasping her by the shoulders. His eyes widen. “You’re frozen through”, he says, eyes narrowing with concern, and she can only give a strangled little laugh, wretched-sounding even to her own ears. “A nightmare.” “Joffrey?”, he asks, chafing his rough hands over her arms in an attempt to warm her. “No”, she mumbles, “worse. Imaginary, but still, worse.” 

 

 

* * *

**Sandor**

The little bird’s scream bolts me awake. I come to with my hand already on my sword, prepared for danger. I can’t see any in the woods, but you don’t get to be an old soldier by being complacent. “What is it?”, I ask her, and take a good look. She’s quaking like a leaf, _again_. Her face is pale, lips almost blue in the sunset light. Poor girl doesn’t rest easy, but we’ve got that in common. She stutters and stammers through an explanation—a nightmare, it seems, and of the mundane sort. Imaginary terrors. 

 

Sometimes, I forget how young she truly is. _Still a girl, for all she’s flowered and wears a woman’s face_. 

 

She’s still shivering, and so I indulge myself and reach out. Half expecting a rebuke, I’m gratified when she lets me chafe her arms for warmth, and for a second I imagine she leans into my touch. _Keep dreaming, dog. Next you’ll think she finds you pretty_. The thought makes my lip twitch, and I shake my head. “Never mind the nightmare, girl. We’ve a ways to travel.” She nods, keeping her own counsel, but the black smudges under her eyes bely her exhaustion. She’s rattled, visibly so, and that’s alarming enough. I’ve seen the girl keep her composure after she’s been publicly stripped; must have been some nightmare to frighten her so bad. 

 

She breaks camp efficient as any squire, and passes me a heel of bread from the saddlebag. She’s still leery of Stranger, but rolls him an apple. He hardly bares his teeth at her; he must be going soft. _Shameless horse, sweetening to any hand that shows you kindness_. I try not to think of the saying that beasts start to take on the traits of their masters. Still, the necessities of packing up are quickly done and we’re off along the darkening trail. It’s barely wide enough for the horse, and my elbows scrape the brush as we pass. Despite the cramped quarters, we make good time and keeping the river to our right makes for easy navigation. The God’s Eye, and from there a clear shot to Riverrun and her King in the North. 

 

 _Hopefully he’s a better one than the King in the south, or we’re buggered for true._  

 

Or, well, _I’m_ buggered, and the little bird will be fine. Ensconced safe in the loving arms of her family—I’ll have held to my word, but if her brother doesn’t like the look of me, it’ll be at the cost of my head. Somehow, I doubt the wolves care much for dogs of any sort, lest of all those trailing a Lannister leash. I’ve been used to being on my own for so long that the thought of being a _we_ makes my skin itch. Still, with the little bird tucked up against me, head resting on my chest as she dozes fitfully, the itch a bit less acute. 

 

“Sandor?”, she peeps sleepily at me, soft as a turtledove. I give her a little grunt, and she barrels ahead, voice so quiet I need to strain myself to hear it. “Will you tell me about yourself?” 

 

For a moment, I’m speechless. She’s got some nerve to ask, bold as brass like that. “So much for those courtesies”, I mutter, but she overhears and whips around, shooting me a sharp little look. “Pardon me”, she says, prim as starched lace, “but I would think it discourteous _not_ to inquire—after all, you are my travelling companion and protector and yet I know so very little about you.” “Know what you need to know”, I growl back, and she makes a little noise of disagreement. 

 

“I know that you favour a sour red”, she says, and my thoughts take a turn for the worse at the mention of it. Another conversation inside hateful stone walls, one where I’d overstepped and frightened the pretty bird bad. I’d told her that all a man needed was sour red, dark as blood—or a woman. She’d not even flowered yet and I’d pawed at her, leered and made reference to her teats. They’re still there, to make matters harder, and I’m a man still breathing; this trip has been the death of a hundred thousand paper-cuts. _Damn you, dog, have some decency and avert your eyes_. If she notices my wandering gaze, she gives no sign, but I shift backwards in the saddle just in case.

 

“And that you drink it to forget.” 

 

 _Ah, there you go. That’ll cool your blood quick_. The little bird continues on, her voice measured in timbre and tone but unrelenting as the winds of winter. “I know that you don’t hold to the Old Gods, nor the New. I know that you spit on knights and their vows.” She goes silent for a moment, and then whispers, “And I know that you once dreamed of being one. Why else would you covet the little wooden knight?” 

 

I rear back as though slapped, snarl like a kicked dog. _She dares?_ “You know nothing about me”, I hear myself snap as from a distance. She shrinks away from me for a second, and I continue on, unable to stop myself. “You know nothing at all about who I am, little bird.” “No”, comes the quick reply, “I don’t.” Her voice turns plaintive, “Isn’t that what I’ve said? I would like to know more—but I am not sure what will upset you, and so dare not ask.” 

“You dare plenty”, I warn her, hands white-knuckled on the reins. “I know”, she confesses, quiet, “and yet, I would dare more. Will you tell me?” 

“No”, I tell her, disinclined to humour her strange request. No need for her to know more about me; there’s nothing there but brutality of life as a soldier. _None of it suitable for little maiden ears, that’s for certain, and private above all that_. “There’s no stories sung about the life of a soldier, little bird. It’s nothing but ugliness.” “Then tell me about yourself, _please_ ”, she beseeches me. “Nothing but more ugliness”, I tell her. She turns those sky-blue eyes on me then, the smudges under them more pronounced in the darkness. Unshed tears makes them glitter like cold stars, and I feel my resolve begin to fail. “I’m tired”, she whispers, “and yet I am afraid to sleep. I might dream. If you talk to me, I may yet last out the night.” 

 

The knife in the gut is back. I’m worse than that fool Florian, soggy as a poet and as well-trained as any cur. The thought of those dark bruises blooming like blackened eyes is impetus enough to concede the battle; I know what it’s like to dread what dreams may come. _Something else she knows about you_ , Gregor’s voice in my head chuckles. _A weakness for her to exploit_. _The_ mighty _Hound, manipulated by a little wolf bitch_. I tell him to go to the Hells. “Damn it all. All right, girl, you win”, I grind out. “What would you like to know?” 

 

She pauses for a moment, and then the little wretch giggles at me. “I hadn’t thought that far”, she admits. _Silly little thing_ , I think, and yet, her laugh was in short supply at the Keep, and never given to me. _This is not such a high price to pay for it. Dogs don’t get dignity_. “Well…”, she trails off, obviously searching for a neutral topic. Given that we’ve only ever shared company in a den of horrors, she has a hard time of it. “Ah!”, she chirps, and despite myself I feel the curl of amusement low in my gut. I command myself not to find it—find her—endearing. _Too late, you bloody fool_. 

 

“You told me once you preferred dogs to knights.” 

 

“The little bird repeats what she hears”, I tell her, echoing myself. This time, there’s no rebuke hiding in the words. If anything, I’m gratified; to have even a corner of her memory devoted to me is a heady thrill. Can’t say there’s many have that honour, and less still that seem to be held in her regard. _Don’t poke at it, dog, you’ll get delusions of grandeur_. “Only things worth repeating”, she says, looking up from under her lashes. _Oh._ _Well, bugger me_. 

“Then yes, little bird. I like dogs.” 

She beams up at me, and I get the impression that if she were bolder, or braver, she’d chide me about that not having been so hard. As it is, I feel like a dog being rewarded with a treat for working a clever trick, but I can’t say I mind. _Too many kicks, and not enough kindness. It’s not wrong to want some sweetness. And if I’m a dog, at least I’m hers._

 

“There were kennels at Winterfell”, she tells me, and I think of the Clegane kennels, undoubtedly fallen into disrepair. Father had been proud of them and grandfather even moreso, but Gregor had seen to them quick enough. _You know what I do to puppies_ , he laughs in my head, and I feel my lip twitch. He’s louder without the wine, but then there’s the little bird, resting her dainty gloved hand lightly on my mailed fist. I hadn’t noticed I’d been squeezing the reins, but she gives me a look like she _knows_ , like she can pluck out my eyes and peer into the vault of my head. She continues with her chirping, drawing me in with her voice and sending Gregor’s creeping back to wherever monsters hide. _I could kiss her for that alone_ , I think, and then give my head a sharp shake. _Child, dog, she’s a_ child _and a maiden, a highborn one at that. Keep your head straight, or her brother the king is like to remove it for you_. 

“I used to hear them barking when the wolves would howl. They were shaggy great beasts for hunting wolves that came too close to the walls, and for guarding the outriders. They were so tall—I once saw one jump up on the kennel-master and place his paws on his shoulders easily, as though they were companions embracing. Old Nan once told us that the Stark kennels were founded by a tamed direwolf and a hunting hound, and that was why they were all so tall, and so fierce.” She smiles at the memory of happier days, though I’ve no idea who this old biddy is, nor much care. “Thought I was telling you the story”, I rasp, tone wry, and she blushes pink. “Oh! Apologies, Se—Sandor. Which breed do you prefer best?” She recovers gamely, and I try not to snort. “Don’t kill yourself, girl, it was only a jape. I don’t mind your chirping” She smiles up at me again but stays silent, sitting pretty as a picture. _Well, you’ve gone and done it. You’ve got to talk now_. 

 

“My grandsire raised hunting hounds, big ones. Strong enough put a grown man on his arse, and over a head and a half at the withers.” She does the calculation in her head, I can see it, and makes a little noise I take to be impressed. “Quite large, then”, she says, and I grin. “Yes, and brawny, too. Ugly as a shit in a sept, but fierce enough and loyal. He trained them to run in packs, hunt whatever they were set on. Never missed a mark, those ones, and could take a boar easy as drawing breath. Never tested them against lions, til Lord Tytos tried to meet his maker, but served the purpose all the same.” I remember those dogs; they’d earned us our Keep, and our Maester had taught Gregor, Elynor and myself the story soon as we could walk. “My father gave us each a pup to train, said a dog’s loyalty could only be earned, not bought.” Sansa nods, though her eyes have gone dark. 

She knows what’s coming, I think, but I’m unable to stop myself from spewing venom now, like a wound long abscessed and finally lanced. “Gregor’s was a great black thing, his constant companion. One day, there was a thunderstorm. Those always gave Gregor his headaches, made him vicious, and we all knew to steer clear. The dog, no more than a few years old, came and barked to be let in his chamber. The storm had scared it, but it was Gregor the dog should have feared. He opened the door and flung it against the wall so hard it snapped three of the four legs. We all heard it shrieking, and then we heard it stop. Mine was next, a puppy. Dunk, I’d named it, for he was all red but for his black ears. Looked like he’d been held by them and dipped in paint. After the fire, Dunk didn’t act different, didn’t care about the ruin of my face. Only that my hands worked for rubbing his belly. He never left my side, loyal beast. And then Gregor came to visit, back from squiring at Casterly Rock.” 

I stop to catch my breath, the memory leaving me with a stab of anguish so acute that my gut roils with it, even after a lifetime of unfairness and loss. “Caught me crying from the pain after a bath. The hot water scalded the wounds, made them burn like they were alight again and there was no milk of the poppy for me. It was ruinous expensive, and saved for Gregor’s headaches. I had to make do with willowbark tea, and that barely takes the edge off a hangnail. Gregor sneered, called me a mewling puppy whimpering for its mother. Told me he’d show me what he did to puppies. He took Dunk by the ears, took him to the tub, and held him down under the water. The maids hadn’t emptied it yet, and Dunk was only little. There was more than enough to do the job.” 

I can hear myself, try to command myself to stop but the words keep coming in a vile flow. I can remember Dunk’s thrashing, Gregor’s snarling chuckles, and the sound of my own screams clear as day. The taste of blood from my torn mouth, bath-softened scabs ripping open as I screamed and screamed. “My sister came running in, saw the limp puppy and Gregor smiling. Saw me, screaming like I was being murdered. She shouted at him, then, and tried to pull him away. He shoved her so hard she fell, cracked the corner of the bureau with her temple, and didn’t get back up. He’d never hit her before. She looked like our mother, and he’d never hit her for all that he’d brutalized me, and then he killed her for defending me.” I release a shuddering breath. “Won’t sleep now, little bird.” My voice sounds apologetic to my ears, and rightfully so. I should never have dropped this in her lap. I’ve never told anyone, and she hadn’t needed to know it. She’s seen enough of the world’s cruelty without borrowing it from others. 

 

I chance a look down and see the little bird’s hand is tight over her mouth, horror writ clear on those pretty features. _Damn you, dog, you’ve upset her. Why have you never learnt to shut your bloody mouth?_  

 

“Do you know”, she says finally, and I startle at the queer tone in her voice. She sounds almost conversational. “I didn’t think I could hate anyone more than I hate Joffrey.” She slants her eyes up at me, as though gauging my reaction. I must pass her inspection because she continues, voice becoming flat. “But _him_ …” Her lips curl in a wolfish snarl, teeth shining white in the moonlight. “If I were a wolf for true, I’d rip his throat out.” I look at her in shock and realize her eyes are cold with killing rage. I’ve seen the expression on her face before, just the once. That time, she’d nearly tumbled Joffrey off a parapet to his death; would have done if I hadn’t stepped in to stop her. 

 

I once told her a hound could smell a lie, and so I know she’s telling the truth. 

 

She means it. 

 

“If you were a wolf, little bird”, I murmur, almost too soft for her to hear, “I’d let you.”

 

* * *

**Sansa**

 

 

“If you were a wolf, little bird”, he murmurs to her, so soft she can barely hear him, “I’d let you.” 

 

Sansa isn’t quite sure what madness has overcome her. The last time she’d felt this clarity of purpose, she’d intended to throw Joffrey to his death and follow him off the walkway. The feeling had been the same, the cold rage brewing behind her eyes making her itch for claws and fangs. But then, she’d just been forced to see her father’s head on a spike. This isn’t an indignity against her. That the Hound’s story should inspire such a violent response from her is surprising. 

 

 _And yet, not as surprising as all that_ , she thinks to herself. He had been good to her and while he’s a violent man, he hadn’t been a violent child. His brother’s cruelty had been beyond the pale. It had eclipsed Joffrey’s in sadism, if not in scope, and Sansa knows she means every one of the words spilling from her mouth. She worries for a second that he will judge her, but his response soothes that worry away. 

 

It’s easier to share things in the dark, when they’re vulnerable and tucked in close together, facing in the same direction. Perhaps that’s what inspires Sansa to rest her head back against his chest, close her eyes and open her mouth. “You told me once that killing was the sweetest thing there is.” He flinches behind her, and she knows he feels shame for his words. Still, she soldiers gamely on, refusing to let him dwell on the past. “Is that true?” 

 

He is silent for a moment, and then she slowly feels him nod, a dip that brushes his chin against the top of her head. “In my experience”, he rasps, and she nods. She understands, now, how good the power must feel to someone who had once been so powerless. She wonders if killing Joffrey would have felt good, and thinks so, if only for that single, swooping second. “A knight’s a sword with a horse, little bird, and never believe different. The rest, the vows and the sacred oils and the lady’s favours, they’re silk ribbons tied round the sword. Maybe the sword’s prettier with ribbons hanging off it, but it will kill you just as dead. We all know the score when we pick up that blade.” 

“Do you imagine them all to be your brother?”, she asks suddenly, before she can lose her nerve. “No”, he says, and she remains quiet and lets him finish. “Just practice. When a green boy starts using a live blade, you stick him with the butcher to learn the feel of steel through a carcass. Then with a live hog, to season him for the killing. After a while, it’s just so much meat. That’s all they are. Meat. It’s nothing personal with them, just duty. I may not be a knight, little bird, but I’m a sword just the same.” After having seen those brave storybook knights in action, she no longer holds any illusions; life is not a song, and knights are killers in polished plate. “Gregor’s is the only death I’ll be condemned for, and he’s the only one who deserves it.” 

 

Sansa feels the rage rise and tamps it ruthlessly back, keeping her tone sweet. “The Gods have eyes. Surely they have seen his cruelty.” “If they exist, little bird, the Gods are the cruellest creatures of all”, he tells her, and while she dearly wishes to contest the point with him, Sansa isn’t sure that she can. After all, the Gods gave her Joffrey, and gave him Gregor. 

 

 _Then again…_  

 

“The night of the battle”, and _Gods_ , had that only been three days past? It seems an eternity now, “the queen caught me praying. She asked me what for. When I told her I was asking the Gods to have mercy on us all, she told me that the Gods had no mercy, and that was why they were Gods.” She takes a breath, and closes her eyes. “I don’t think I agree. Surely they must. They answered my prayers, after all.” 

 

Sandor makes a snorted noise. “Really?” He sounds incredulous, though Sansa won’t hold it agains him. It’s a loaded claim to make to this fire-scarred warrior, and to the abused boy he had once been. “Yes”, she answers softly. “I prayed to the Mother that night—for Joffrey’s courage to fail him, and for his men to desert him.” She can feel the laugh rumble up in his chest. “Little bird’s got talons”, he says and she can hear the approval in his voice, making something flutter in her chest. “And it did, at that. When he ran, the gold cloaks turned tail and slinked off like kicked curs. I’m not sure if that was a prayer come true, though”, he adds, voice wry. “I’ve known the boy since he was in swaddling, and there’s not enough nerve in the boy to fill a piss pot half way.” It’s her turn to snort, an unladylike gesture she’s sure her lady mother would disapprove of. 

 

“Perhaps that was merely a lucky wish”, she concedes, “But I prayed to her for you, as well.” 

 

The silence that follows her pronouncement is weighted. She can feel him tense behind her, and she wonders if perhaps she’s overreached. Still, the words are out, and she is not ashamed. There is no crime in praying for someone. No crime in caring. “Did you now”, he finally says some time afterwards, voice cautious. “What for?” She takes a moment to mull the words over in her mind. 

 

“I prayed for her to save you, if she could”, she finally whispers, “And to gentle the rage inside you.” 

 

He’s silent behind her, and she clasps her hand over her wrist, thumb stroking her fluttering pulse to soothe herself. “Did it work?”, she hears herself ask. He rattles in a breath. “Well”, he says, and his voice is strangely thick. “I’ve never been prayed over before”, he admits, and Sansa’s heart aches anew for him. “But I’m not dead, and I’m not drunk, so it couldn’t have hurt.” She smiles at the uncharacteristic gentleness from him and reaches out, boldly resting her fingertips on the hand gripping the reins. “I am glad”, she murmurs, and then yawns suddenly, a kittenish thing. “Rest, little bird”, he tells her, and she can feel his arms tighten around her waist, holding her secure in the saddle. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.” 

“I know”, she whispers, “thank you.” She rests her head against his chest, eyes quickly sliding shut. “Thank _you_ , Sansa”, she thinks she hears him rasp from behind her, voice like silks rubbing against each other. Just as sleep claims her, she realizes this is the first time she’s heard him use her name, and finally greets sleep with a smile on her lips. 


	4. The Weirwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a close brush with discovery, Sandor wasn't expecting his night to get any worse. He really should have known better.

**Sandor**

 

 

The little bird prayed for me. 

 

She’s been asleep for hours, tucked up against my breastplate like a nesting dove. Her sleepy sighs break the muffling silence of the mist shrouding the trail, leaving me to my troubled thoughts. _She prayed for you_. Nobody’s ever prayed for me, not since Elynor. Prayed for me to leave, to kill them quick or to pass them by, might be—but never _for_ me. 

 

 _Before you forced a hymn from her, she prayed to the Mother_ _for your sorry hide. Why would she do that?_  

 

The little bird is a curious knot, one my fingers itch to unravel. She’s gentle as the princess in some song, graceful and sweet besides, with a core of cold steel I’d only seen glimpses of in the Red Keep. _A proper little she-wolf_ , I think with a wry snort. She seems to have warmed to me, though I wonder how true that could be given her dream a few nights back. She doesn’t seem the manipulative sort, certainly nothing like Cersei, but she’s a high lord’s get and bred to wrap men around her little finger like a filament of wrought silver. I’m not sure I can trust her not to play me. She’d feared me in her dream, _begged_ for it not to be me—whatever it was she was dreaming about—and while we haven’t spoken of it, I can feel that knowledge fester in my craw. 

 

 _You can’t fault the girl for her nightmares, Hound_. I wish I could, but even I’m not so petty as that, so I take my wrath and bitterness and choke it down. Somehow, it’s easier without the wine. The little bird has been conservative with her dosing but even with her careful stewardship, the skins are running damn near empty. For all that the lack of it has made _his_ voice just that much more insistent, it’s also seemed to put her more at ease around me. _I’ll take that bargain. He’s imaginary._ She’s _not._

 

What she _is_ is a solid little weight tucked up against me, looking harmless for all that the Gods know she was ready to kill Gregor on my behalf earlier. _For all the good the attempt would do her_. My brother’s butchered his way across half the continent, fearless. Braining a prince—a child—against a wall and raping his royal mother with no repercussions will do that to a man, and Gregor had little and less fear to start out with. I fervently hope we don’t cross paths with him. What he’d do to the little bird would make Elia’s torture seem a tickle; that one has a cruelty in him that reveals Joffrey for an amateur.

 

I look down at her, wrapped up in her cloak with the hood pulled up to ward off the chill. That fire-kissed hair of hers spills out like a lick of flame, trailing in a heavy braid near down to the elbow. My fingers itch to touch it, but I keep both hands on the reins. I remember the little braids she’d worn the first time I’d seen her, kneeling to greet Robert and the court. It feels like a thousand years ago. She’d been beautiful then, innocent as a winter daisy. With her hair pulled back in that prim Northern way, she’d looked wholesome and fresh and I’d thought her lord father a fool for bringing his daughters into the lion’s den. He hadn’t known Robert for true in a long time, for all that they clasped arms like brothers and comrades. _A mummer’s show, that_. Brotherhood, they claimed, while Robert drank and fucked his way through Westeros and Arryn had limped after him cleaning up his messes, relieved from that duty only by his death. When Robert had died, the court had eaten his brother in arms whole and toyed with the man’s daughter like cats on a bird with a broken wing. I think of her modest Northern dresses and the lavish gowns she had worn in King’s Landing, emulating the Queen and her vicious pack of handmaids. She’d looked like nothing so much as a woodland bird changing its plumage to avoid the fox. 

 

 _Shame it didn’t work, little bird. They were all of them better hunters than you._  

 

Some battle-honed instinct makes my head snap up like a hound on the scent. Over to the left, from the _trail_ , I can hear hoofbeats approaching. I halt Stranger with a quick flex of my thighs; he stops in his tracks and drops his head. I clap a hand over the little bird’s mouth, keeping her quiet even as she jerks to startled wakefulness. I hold a finger to my lips and give her a harsh look. She nods, eyes wide, so I remove my hand and slide her to the ground. She goes easily and lands quietly in the loamy soil. I drop beside her and Stranger goes to his knees, curling up. In the darkness, he looks like a boulder, and I tuck the little bird in behind me, sheltered between his bulk and mine. 

 

 _If they’ve come for her, they’re going through me first_. 

 

“There! The girl’s in the woods!” 

The little bird startles, looks as though she’s like to take flight, and I pin her against the destrier with my back. We don’t know their numbers, don’t know their weapons. For all we do know, they could be waiting to flush her out and feather her with arrows, a little bird for true. I can hear my heartbeat like a drum in my ears, my blood churning in my veins as I unsheathe my sword with a soft noise. The hooves stop a bit up the road from us and I can hear voices, though none I recognize. 

 

“There”, I hear one say, “can you see it? The white figure there.” I can’t tell where they’re pointing, but beside me the little bird stiffens and tucks herself deeper into the shadow of her cloak. Pale as the moon, she’d shine like a beacon. My hand tightens on the hilt, just in case. 

 

I’m loathe to raise my head and check; behind us, Stranger sits motionless, coiled and ready to explode into movement at the slightest provocation. We can hear clomping footsteps coming in to the forest and then, somehow, moving away from us. Beside me, the little bird is mouthing silent prayers. Neither of us move. The quiet is interminable, taut as the moment before the sword falls. 

 

We wait, in the mist and the darkness. The little bird closes her eyes. 

 

“It’s a fucking tree!”, a new voice laughs, a snide edge of nastiness to the tone. “Gaven’s gone and found himself a tree!” 

“O-ho, and a mighty hunter he is, finding a tree in a fucking forest. Aye, the Lions’ll be happy to hear he’s caught them some kindling. Keep ‘em warm as any wolf pelt, won’t it?” 

 

The man gives a strangled shout; in the distance, I can hear his blade hack into the bark. “It’s a fucking ghost tree, one of them white ones.” He sounds apoplectic. “Then you’ve been spending too much time on patrol if you’re mistaking a witch-wood for a woman”, comes the quick retort, and the derisive laughs rise up again. “Heard them hoofbeats, though, din’t we?”, the first man says in a low snarl. “Damned fool, they were your own. It’s the mist, has you hearing spectres. Next you’ll say you saw a bloody grumpkin behind a rock.” The men laugh again, coarse, callous and entirely too close for comfort. 

 

The girl shifts nervously and I lean closer, cover her body with my own as best I dare. 

 

The man makes a noise of inchoate rage and a few more slashes ring out. I can feel her flinch with every one. “Warrior’s balls, Quentyn, I heard hoofbeats.” “You heard nothing but echoes in the fog. Got yourself believing trees are girls; you’re thinkin’ with your head, not your brain.” The little bird looks up at me, eyebrows raised, mouthing _what?_  

 

I try not to cringe. I’m not a good man and there’s only so much I can explain before my limited reserves of good intentions are empty. I hope she gets distracted before thinking to ask me what that means and test a patience already wearing thin at the seams. 

 

Another snarl, further away this time. The slashing sound continues as the man hacks through the underbrush. He must have heard us, though we seem too far into the woods and too close to the riverbank to track. Thankfully the weirwood had caught his eye, but as he vaults into the saddle with a jingle of his bridle and the laughs of his squadron, I can see it’s drawn the little bird’s’ too. “No”, I rasp low in her ear, long after the sound of riders has faded away. “Oh, please!”, she whispers back, meeting my eyes in quick flickers. It’s not a steady glance, but she tries all the same. I catch her chin in my big paw, hold her still. “Look at me and tell me why, girl”, I tell her, keeping my voice low in case they decide to return. She takes a breath and meets my gaze, even as she clasps her hands in front of her to steady her nerves. “Because I would like to pray”, she tells me matter-of-factly. “Those men were hunting us, hunting _me_ , and they were close enough to smell. Yet they did not discover us.” She rests a hand on Stranger’s flank to steady herself and to my surprise he barely shudders, only giving her a wall-eyed look of warning. “I would give my thanks to the Old Gods and the New.” 

 

Well, and I can’t argue with that. No sense in leaving just yet either, I tell myself; the patrol won’t check somewhere that they’ve already found empty, but they may ride back along the road at any moment. Truth be told, my own nerves are jangled and without the wine to steady them, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep us travelling quietly. “All right, little bird, all right. Quit your chirping before they hear you in Oldtown and send another hunting party.” I take pains to sound gruff as I can, but wilt slightly under the strength of the small, shy smile she turns on me. _Damn you, dog, you’ve gone soft_. Rising to my feet, I shepherd her through the forest, keeping an ear out for returning Red Cloaks. 

 

The noise of horror that escapes the little bird when we finally reach the tree makes my blood run cold, and I imagine all the worst in a single chilling instant. 

 

_An ambush. They left behind a man, or a snare, or a trap, and she’s stepped in it. Fucking stupid cur, you should never have brought her over, no matter how pretty she begged._

 

When I look over to her, though, she’s unharmed, standing stock-still with her hand clasped over her mouth, eyes wet and shining. The tree itself, a sapling no thicker around than she is, is a red-crusted ruin. Ragged gashes bite into the trunk and ooze sap the colour of heart’s blood. “No. Oh, no”, she murmurs, and crosses to it, dropping to her knees and placing a hand on the bark. Her hand smears some of the fluid but she stays still, her forehead resting against the trunk for a moment. Red hair and bloody sap seem the same queer shade of not-black in the darkness of the forest. _Bloody Northerners and their buggering Old Gods_ , I think, all bluster as her unnerving stillness stretches out into silence. 

 

“Little bird?”, I ask as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and raise. There’s something queer about this tree, something ominous and _other_ , and I don’t like it. She turns her head when I call her name and for a second, I swear I see her eyes reflect the moonlight. 

* * *

**Sansa**

 

 

The tree is a mangled ruined, hack-marks tracing their way up the trunk. It weeps bloody sap, trailing down in viscous rivulets down to the roots. 

Sansa has never seen marks of violence like this on a weirwood; they had been respected in the North. No one would dare. 

 

 _But this isn’t the North_ , she thinks pensively, _and in any case, what is a weirwood doing growing this far south? Maester Luwin said they’d all been cut down…_

 

She’s tired, aching. Her pulse still thrums sickly in her veins, adrenaline making her hands shake. She’d gone from deep, dreamless sleep straight through to quaking terror at their pursuit and it leaves an odd, bitter taste in her mouth. _I could just rest my head for a moment_ , she thinks to herself. _Just a moment_. She leans forward, slow. She’s so tired. It brushes against her, waves of fatigue whispering that it would just be a _moment_ , just a _heartbeat_ , just to close her eyes and _rest_. 

 

 _Rest_ , she thinks to herself. _That would be so lovely_. 

 

Her forehead presses against the sticky trunk and her body drops away. 

 

 _Memories flash behind her closed eyes, rapid-flicker like candlelight in a gale. Impressions, sensations, fleeting as a moth’s wings. The brush of fingers over pale bark, the quiet sobs of the grieving and the thankful, the endless prayers of millennia of supplicants._ Please _, they ask, every one of them. Please, an end to war, an end to famine, an end to_ winter _. White trees on white snow, sap like blood welling in eyes and mouths as they listen, forever and back into the mists of time. Eight thousand years press against her, running over her mind like fingers on aged and worn vellum._

 

 _Sansa can_ see _, watches invaders come, watches the Wall rise, watches men bleed and fight and fuck and make a new generation of men and women with the look of the North about them, thick dark hair and eyes grey as winter sky. Some wear furs. Some wear crowns. Regardless of their adornment, their thoughts are all the same. A healthy babe. A rich harvest. A mild winter. Mercy, peace, prosperity. Over and over, a litany whispered by many faces. Many_ Starks _. The weirwood knows these people, has heard the prayers of the wolves from within their walls._ She _knows these people, her people, their long faces stern and harsh as the land they call home. All of them bend the knee to these eerie white trees, her ancestor's' whispers warming the wood._

 

_Let it be enough, the dark-eyed man murmurs. Let it hold them at bay._

_Let him fall, the pale-faced man thinks. Let him die._

_Let them all fall, the gaunt man prays. Let me kill all who threaten me and mine._

_Let me be strong, her father pleads. Let me be strong enough to do my duty.  
_

 

_She watches, detached, as leaves grow and fall, as castles rise and crumble, tracing down through the eons. Men, women, children, all with grey eyes come to the trees in their time. Some go South, others to the East or the West. Some are taken to wife, others as wards, but all inexorably linked; a network of roots in the harsh rock of the North stretching down through the blood._

 

The North remembers _, a voice that isn’t hers whispers in her mind,_ and you are of the North _._

 

_It sounds like Bran, and for a second she thinks she can hear the sound of howling._

 

“Little Bird”, the man behind her says, and Sansa turns her head around slowly, watching him with that same curious detachment. 

 

He is tall, broad of shoulder and thickly muscled. His hands at his side are large and callused, the appendages of a man used to battle and a heavy sword. He looks like the wolf-men, long of face and grey of eye, with a stony reserve about him that makes him seem carved from native granite. He is unyielding and enduring. _He has the look of the North about him_ , she thinks in the corner of her mind that is still Sansa. He was not meant for the South, not for its softness nor its’ indolence. His is the figure of a man who knows privation, who knows how to survive despite it. How to thrive in it. 

 

_When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

 

She must have this one in her pack, she knows; will rely on his strength and the sharpness of his claws to keep her safe. She _will_ have him in her pack. 

 

Her breath is slow in her chest, stilled from its rapid race. There’s a queer look on his face, something that she would call fear on a weaker man. She knows Sandor cannot possibly fear her, and so she thinks he must fear the tree. She watches as the fingers of his sword-hand flex convulsively. She holds out her hand behind her, only now noticing that the palm has been stained red with sap. “Your knife”, she whispers hoarsely. “I need your knife.” He stares at her. 

 

 _“Please”,_ she adds belatedly and wiggles her fingers for emphasis. He gives himself a shake back to wakefulness. Sandor keeps staring, gaze tracing over her as though seeing her for the first time. Passing his belt-knife to her hilt first, Sansa grips it and rises, slowly circling the tree. The red sap on her fingertips traces whorls over the bark, ringing the tree in a spiral tracing up from nearly the ground to the hack-marks in its trunk. 

 

 _I will have this one in my pack_.

 

She takes Sandor’s knife and stabs it into the tree with all her might. It sinks nearly to the hilt and she pulls it out, does it again and again until she’s gouged out two eyes. The sap immediately runs outwards from the holes, weeping black-bloody paths down through the spirals. She watches it for a moment, still and silent. He does not speak, only stares at her, face expressionless. He does not interfere. 

 

She holds the blade to the tree and shoves it in again, but the force torques the blade and her hand slips. Sansa can distantly feel a sharp red-cold slice along her palm, and when she looks down there is blood on the blade, blood on her hand, blood on the trunk. There’s so much blood, welling in the cupped palm of her hand, but the compulsion to finish the task is overwhelming. Her body obeys, and she braces herself, stabbing again at the trunk. He makes a noise behind her now, takes a step forward and she shifts, holds up her hand. Sap and blood mingle, trail down her arm and in to the hem of her sleeve, soaking it a bloody red-black. “Do not”, she thinks she says, and his steps fall silent behind her. 

 

“ _Seven hells_ ”, she hears him breathe out shakily as she returns to her task. The blood from her hand dilutes the sap, and the wound bleeds freely as she works. If there is pain, she does not feel it. “Little bird, you’re bleeding”, he breathes out, voice hoarse.  

 

 _Yes_ , Sansa thinks, _this one is mine_ , and smiles up at him. 

* * *

**Sandor**

 

 

The little bird has gone fucking mad. 

 

There’s no other alternative; the Keep has managed to break her. That, or the further north I take her, the less of the Joffrey’s little bride-to-be remains. In her stead, I’ve been gifted with this creature, a fey spectre with the little bird’s face and a wolf’s ageless eyes peering up at me. “Little bird, you’re bleeding”, I tell her, and she _smiles_. She knows. She must know she’s bleeding; it’s traced a trail near down to the tender skin at the inside of her elbow, and still she hacks away at the tree with a single-minded focus that reminds me nothing so much of battle-madness. The dedication to seeing the job done, no matter the cost. 

 

_Half expected there to be blood on those sharp white teeth of hers._

 

I try very hard to pretend that thought doesn’t make mine throb heavy in my veins. 

 

Her blood drips to the ground at the base of the tree and still she keeps hacking away. I can smell the copper in the air, heavy and familiar. It rattles my nerves to see the little bird this unlike herself. Only time I’ve ever seen her this single-minded was the morning of her flowering, when she’d gone near manic trying to hide the evidence. _Not that I can blame her_. That had been sheer terror riding her; this new blankness unnerves me bad. She’s there but not herself, and I feel my eyes flick back to the tree’s hollow gaze. I’ve never been one for the Gods, not since I screamed for their intercession and all I got was Gregor holding me down tighter, but these aren’t the Gods of the Westerlands. There is no sept, and the Seven are nowhere near this place. 

 

Here in the mists a stone’s throw from the Isle of Faces, my skin prickles. These are the Gods of the little bird’s forefathers, and I can feel the judgement of eight thousand years of kings weighing down on me. _Who are you to presume to guard her_ , they would ask me if they could speak. _The only man who has_ , I would tell them if I could answer. Staring at the bleeding eyes of the carved tree, I think perhaps I might be able to, as soon as I can extricate the knife from the little bird’s hand without her sticking me with it first. 

 

“That’s enough, little bird”, I rasp, and she looks back at me again, taking my measure in a way that feels both intimate and alien. She’s never been quite this bold before. “I’m done”, she murmurs and presses her bleeding hand to the bark of the tree for another long moment. When she pulls away, abstracted and dreamy, I tug her close and wrap her in my cloak. She’s shivering now, tiny little tremors all along her body. She does not resist when I tuck her up against me and I offer silent thanks to anyone who’s listening—though not too closely, I hope. 

 

Then, a look at the tree near makes my heart stop beating. With the slashes curling over the eye and twisting the mouth, the little bird has carved my ruin of a face into a tree that will outlive us all. 

 

“That’s a cruel jape, girl”, I snarl at her, jerking my chin towards the agonized face hacked into the ruins of the tree. “Pretty bit of work, carving my face, making a mockery of it.” The fury rises instantly under my skin and I give her a firm shake. She’s limp as a rag doll against me and for all my anger, I’m careful not to do her damage. I wouldn’t harm her, but the girl’s got cold stone for a soul if she thinks she can do this and not wound. 

 

“A jape?” 

Her voice is soft, breathy. I try to think about the wreckage of the tree, of my anger, of anything but the little coo of her voice under my cloak. “No jape.” Her voice sounds strange in her mouth, the words unfamiliar on her tongue. The sense of strangeness rises again. “Every weirwood must have a face.” “Did it have to have mine?”, I snarl down at her. “Yes”, she replies, and I near choke on my own breath. _Bloody Northerners. I should have left her. Should never met her. Should never…_  

 

“It is a good face”, she says, sounding more herself by the moment. “Little bird, you’re crueller than Cersei.” She fixes me with that flat gaze that makes me feel like an insect pinned for inspection, and I fight the urge to cringe. _You’re a man grown, a killer, an unsheathed sword. Don’t cower in front of a child._ Still, this is a girl born and raised to be queen, one with ice in her spine, and it’s hard to resist the urge to do exactly that. 

 

“It is a good face”, she repeats. “Burned, but good nevertheless.” “A contradiction, little bird. Burned and good? You’d be the first to say it.” 

 

The smile she sticks me with then is sharper than any sword. I can feel the hair raise on my arms, even as my blood gives a pulse hard enough to leave me light-headed. Her eyes are dark now, dilated so wide that the Tully blue is a mere ring around the blackness of her pupils. The stillness stretches out for another endless moment, before I pull away before I can do something I regret. 

 

“We’ll camp here tonight”, I tell her, caught between my skin feeling as though it’s crawling and as though it’s been licked with the sweetest of flames. “Near your bloody tree. They won’t come back looking, and Gods know that face should scare them away if they do.” She nods and goes to unload Stranger. As she reaches him, the horse rears back, eyes wide and white all around and she falls back, landing on her rump and scrambling back and away from his flashing hooves. “Mind yourself, girl!”, I bark, and she heaves herself to her feet, holding her wrist tightly. A look at her hand reveals why; the fall has torn it open again and the blood is flowing free again. She seems to have recovered herself now that she’s away from the tree, and her eyes well with tears that track their way through the grime on her cheeks. _Ah fuck, little bird, don’t cry…_

 

“Sandor”, she gulps at me, “it hurts!” The tears suddenly spill over and she begins to weep, clutching it tight as though it will staunch the blood any quicker. I move as fast as I’m able and grab the last wineskin off of Stranger’s saddle. I flush the wound liberally with the sour red, barely even mourning its loss. Better travelling dry than the little bird’s hand catching the rot. As it is, she’ll likely scar, and the thought makes me bare my teeth at the tree. _She’ll_ scar _, dog. On_ your _watch_. I spit in disgust. Tearing a strip of fabric off my white Kingsguard cloak from where it’s cleanest, I soak it in the wine and wrap it tightly around her palm. I hand her the skin. “Take a gulp, little bird. It’ll do for the pain.” She lifts it, feels how near empty it is, and meets my gaze. “But there’s so little left.” I level her a glare. “I don’t care to do a battlefield amputation on your pretty little hand. Your wolf brother won’t thank me for returning you to him less a paw, will he?” 

 

She shakes her head silently, not dropping her gaze this time. She’s observant, taking everything in with those big blue eyes. _Taking_ you _in, dog, so mind yourself_. There had always been intelligence in her gaze, but where before she’d tucked it down deep behind a lacquer of placidity, now she lets it shine clear through. I feel her eyes trace over my face and keep my own impassive, let her search for what she will. When she pulls away, she takes another dainty sip and puts the empty skin down. “Thank you”, she murmurs, courteous and near back to her usual self. I go about setting up camp while the little bird does her best to assist one-handed. Finally we’re done and she settles in beside me, shifting closer and closer. She shivers again, and I take off my cloak and hand it to her silently.

 

 It’s warmer tucked here between the sapling’s roots, but she still cocoons herself in the bloody, ragged thing. She sighs softly, and I huff a breath through my nose. “I can hear you thinking from here, little bird. Spit it out.” “What will you do without the wine?”, she asks, as I’d known she would. Nobody survives Cersei without being stubborn; I’d have been more surprised if she’d let the matter go. “I’ll manage, girl, as I’ve done before.” “But—“, “—Not another word”, I rasp, brooking no opposition. “Better to save your hand than my sleep, little bird. You don’t know where that blade’s been.” She looks a little green at that thought, and I rasp out a hoarse chuckle. “I clean it, girl. At any rate, there’s no beauty rest in the world would be enough to fix this wreck.” 

I gesture angrily to my face and she makes a little noise I’d almost call a sigh, if she were ever to do something so indecorous. “Please, believe me”, she whispers, and suddenly shifts to look at me. “It is a good face.” Her hand lifts, tentative, and reaches out. She pauses, and I feel myself go very still. And then I feel it, a cool hand pressed feather-light to my cheek. The _burnt_ one. “Little bird”, I hear myself grind out, and I will my hands not to shake. 

 

“Respectfully”, the little bird murmurs, “but I think we both know there are worse things to be than ugly.” I rear back as though she’s slapped me. “Seven hells, girl, but you’re callous to call a man ugly to his face.” “We both know His Grace. Joffrey’s beautiful.” Her voice shakes for a moment, but she breathes deep, but keeps her hand on my cheek. “And a monster.” Might be he was, but this is the cruelest conversation I’ve had since my father’s maester had shown me the wreckage of my face. 

“You still can’t even meet my eyes, girl, don’t lie to me.” She has the grace to flush. “Well”, she murmurs, keeping her eyes down, “you frightened me.” “I know I did. The scars—“, “—with permission”, she interjects softly, “but I did not mean the scars.” I stop mid-sentence. “It was your eyes. They were angry all the time. It was worse with the w-wine. It made you cruel.” I can’t argue that, don’t bother making excuses either. She has the right of it. “And yet here you are, chirping pretty. What changed?” 

 

She takes a moment to measure her next words carefully. “You”, she says very softly. “You’re not always happy, but you’re also not always wrathful. And after Joffrey, _you_ don’t frighten me, no matter how burnt you are. I know”, and she meets my gaze, still cupping my cheek with her bandaged hand, “I know you won’t hurt me.” _Seven hells, little bird_. “But the scars—“

 

“Are difficult to look at”, she concedes primly. _Ever diplomatic, little bird._ “You were six, you told me that night." No need to ask which; I'd made an ass of myself on the tourney field. "My brother Rickon—“, and her hand shakes like a leaf against me. Instinct has me cupping it with mine, and she inhales again and continues. “My brother Rickon was six when we left, the baby of the family. When I see the burns, I think of him—of that….”  She takes in a breath, her eyes closing momentarily. “You were so _young_.” Her voice cracks with compassion, and her eyes are raw and aching. “I’m so sorry, Sandor.” 

 

The little bird’s cheeks are wet. _She’s crying for you_ , I think in wonder. It feels like the sweetest benediction, better than any holy oils. “Enough, little bird”, I rasp, “crying won’t fix them.” She shakes her head, but dabs at her eyes delicately with her sleeves all the same. “No. But they’re just burns”, she says quietly, and before I can bristle at the way she dismisses the disfigurement, continues, “and the rest of you has the look of the North.” 

 

Once, Stranger kicked me in the ribs and knocked the air out of me. This feels much the same, and I can only watch her, lean into her hand. She allows It for a moment longer and then curls up on her pallet. “If we’re out of wine…” She takes a quiet breath in the darkness, her tense little figure staring up at the canopy of leaves. “Would a song help?” 

 


	5. Come Along, Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little bird sings a grim song, he says, and Sansa thinks he might be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair Warning: This chapter includes a graphic depiction of canon-compliant child abuse. If you would rather avoid that, feel free to scroll past Sandor's section entirely. The passage in question is marked with * * * for your convenience.

**Sansa**

 

She would like to say that she isn’t sure why she offered to sing for him, but that is not exactly true. 

 

 _Ladies never tell lies_ , Sansa hears poor, dead Septa Mordane’s voice say, and takes a deep breath. Who can she be honest with now if not herself, and so she forces herself to meet his startled gaze in the waning moonlight. It isn’t as hard to do any longer. The scars are still ugly, ruinously so, but she hadn’t told a falsehood. _Hounds can smell lies, and every one of them is a better liar than I. It_ was _his eyes that frightened me most. He seems to have gentled a little—or at least, his bark is worse than his bite._ She thinks of the him crouching in front of her in the darkness, sheltering her with his hulking form and unsheathed sword from the men who would return her to Cersei. _Well, perhaps not_ harmless _, but he would not hurt me._ The burns are wretched, but only in the cruelty they represent. 

 

Sansa preens at her newfound maturity. _A lady is ever gracious, forgiving all offences against her_ , echoes Septa Mordane. _The Gods know he can be offensive_ , Sansa admits in the privacy of her own mind, _and yet his rough demeanour hides true honour_. He has saved her countless times already; from her own rage, from Joffrey’s, from the riots and the flames of the Blackwater. For that, she thinks she can forgive him a great deal. 

 

 _I would not forgive Gregor Clegane_ , she thinks suddenly, omitting the courtesy out of sheer spite. Perhaps she needs a bit more practice with the virtue of magnanimity; doubtless her lady mother will seek to hire another Septa to finish her tutelage. If her brother is King, then Sansa is to be a princess in the North and there is no place for a fantasy of revenge in a princess’s mind. A princess must be gentle and always kind. 

 

She thinks of Gregor, a rabid dog on a short leash loosed to do his master’s bidding and then safely kennelled until he is useful again. Her father had allowed no dogs like that in Winterfell. _The cur that savages on command may yet bite the hand that feeds it when food is scarce_ , he had told her and Robb once while touring the kennels. _The hounds are all well cared for_ , Sansa had thought, _so why-ever would they bite?_ She had been so painfully naive then, too simple and childish to understand the subtleties of her father’s lesson. Now she knows a little better, is a little wiser. Sansa knows that a dog like that, feral and ruthless, will inevitably slip its lead and savage at will unless it fears something larger than itself. 

 

Ser Gregor is the largest, strongest man in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms; massive in size, ruthless in demeanour and delighting in depravity, he is peerless. She wonders what Gregor Clegane fears. She knows he must fear _something_ ; everyone does, no matter how fearsome they themselves may be. 

 

She supposes she has Sandor to thank for that realization. 

 

Suddenly, Sansa wonders what her father would have thought of him. Nothing complementary, surely. Too harsh, too rough, too low-born and lacking in refinement. But then again, he had been kind to her when no-one else had and protected her at risk to himself when no one else would. He had been a Lannister dog, true, but he had slipped the lead to save himself and in doing so, saved her. Perhaps her father would have tolerated him; Sandor was fierce, loyal and honest—though doubtless most would prefer if he were less so. He wasn’t given to peacocking about either, another point in his favour. Sansa had noticed her father rolling his eyes at Loras Tyrell’s dramatics during the Tourney of the Hand and while she had been mortified at the time, she must belatedly agree with his judgement.

 

After seeing battle for herself, she concedes that Ser Loras would likely not have emerged unscathed, and in any case, _he_ hadn’t come to save her. He had not harmed her, but he had not lifted a finger to rescue her, for all that he’d given her a brilliant smile and a pretty rose once upon a time. 

 

 _Winterfell has nicer roses than Highgarden anyways_ , Sansa thinks mutinously and hunkers down into the Hound’s loaned cloak in a bit of a sulk. _Any idiot can grow a_ red _rose_. 

 

She is shaken from her petulant thoughts when she realizes Sandor is still watching her with an air of quiet pensiveness. He’s an observant man, so she knows he’s thoroughly taking her measure. Her companion is frequently stoic, still reticent in conversation. _Except for when the memories come_ , she thinks suddenly. _Then it’s as though he can’t stop, and all his secrets spill out. He must hate that._ She watches him again out of the corner of her eye, the strange sensation of being the object of his regard renewing. 

 

He still hasn’t answered her, and so she takes matters in to her own hands and begins debate her choice of songs. _Nothing fancy_ , _and no songs of brave knights and maidens fair_. _He wouldn’t care for those_. Thinking back to King’s Landing and the taste of Meryn Trant’s greave as it split her lip, she thinks she might not either. Instead, she sticks to the songs of her youth, of Winterfell. _Perhaps he hasn’t heard those yet,_ and she suddenly smiles at the thought of sharing them with him. She has so little to share these days that the ability to give him something in return for all his silent kindnesses is a heady thrill. _I might not be able to hunt or fight, but he does like my voice. Why else call me little bird and demand a song?_

 

He makes a sharp grunt when he settles down to his pallet, his bulk made even larger by the plate and mail. She hums the first few bars of Florian and Jonquil, just to needle him. Sandor shoots her a black look then, and she giggles. He seems surprised at that reaction, and she has to cover her mouth lest she laugh impolitely at him and embarrass them both. “A fool and his cunt”, she hears him mutter mutinously, and she gives him a short look for his trouble. “Language!” His growls go a little lower, a bit darker, but her reproving gaze stays steady. Eventually he settles, limiting himself to only the occasional low rumble of discontent. She hardly pays attention to those any more; she knows it’s mostly habit. _If he truly disapproved, he’d tell me so. He’s as subtle as a siege_. 

 

The wine makes her loose enough to sing unselfconsciously. With her eyes closed and the pungent scent of sap still drifting around them, Sansa can almost believe she’s back home in the Godswood with Bran and Rickon. The song had been a favourite of Bran’s, dark and a little sinister. _Old Nan taught it to me because he’d loved it so and even when he was little, it soothed him when nothing else would. I hope Mother remembered to sing it for him_. She can still picture him resting his back against the heart tree, laughing as he’d accompanied her in his high boy’s voice. Robb had been better at the song, a proper rich tenor, but as their father’s heir he’d had little and less time to sit and sing. He’d taught Bran though, and so they’d made a passable duet, much to little Rickon’s delight. 

 

She hopes that Sandor will appreciate the song as her brothers did. 

 

“ _Come away, little lamb_ ”, she sings softly into the silence of the shadowed woods, “ _come away to the water. We are calling to you_.” The river to their left hisses over the stones, and she can hear the wind rustling through the branches of the trees, clearing away the mist. Beside her Sandor’s armour clanks and rattles as he makes himself as comfortable as he can on his pallet, but is quiet. She knows he’s listening attentively and when she’s finished the song, holding the last note to nearly a howl, he nods his approval. “Not bad, little bird”, he rasps and she smiles brightly up at him. _He’s not in the business of giving complements_ , she thinks, _so that’s high praise_. She takes it as her due. 

 

“Where did you learn that little ditty, girl?”, he asks after a moment. “Never heard it at Court.” 

“No, you wouldn’t have”, she tells him, tracing her thumb over the reddened bandage on her palm. “It’s from the North.” She thinks of what that means now; of empty barrowlands studded with granite cairns, of the wolfwood silent but for the hissing of the wind in the sentinel pines, of steady Winterfell a smoking ruin. Winterfell had been impregnable to outside attacks, but there had been no need for them. 

 

Her father had let Theon in the gates himself, and as soon as Father was gone, he’d killed her little brothers and put her home to the torch. The grief she feels then nearly swamps her, but she forces back the tears and sets her lips in a grim little line. _You are a Stark_ , she tells herself until the feeling subsides. _You will not break, no matter how much you would like to. You must be ice._   She adds Theon to the slowly-growing list in her mind, a tally of all the names she will never forgive. Beside her, Sandor makes a quiet noise of interest, startling her back to awareness. “Awful grim song for a little bird to sing. Are all your Northern songs so dark?” Sansa pauses, giving the matter some thought. Old Nan had taught her many of the songs of the North and most were indeed of a similar vein. She thinks that he might have the right of it; there’s something discomfiting about singing summer songs in winter, and it’s easier to stick to what they know. The winters in the North are very long and very dark indeed. 

 

“Yes”, she says quietly, nibbling at a ragged thumbnail abstractedly. “I think most are.” She shoots him a look under her lashes, fighting to keep her face blank. “What else can we sing about?”, she asks with deceptive innocence. “There are no knights north of the Neck.” 

 

He is quiet for a long moment and then erupts into barking laughter, head tossed back with genuine mirth. Sansa glows like a candle; to make such a stoic man laugh aloud is a true test of her conversational abilities. _Anyways_ , she thinks, _he’s much nicer when he’s happy_. She watches him slyly as he laughs, careful not to be observed. He relaxes and the expression on his face goes from frightening to familiar, a simple steadiness she recalls well from the soldiers training in Winterfell’s yard. She wonders when she began to find Sandor’s presence a comfort, but gives it up as useless. It doesn’t matter when it started, only that it’s present now. _He comforts me_ , she thinks, and allows herself to share in his mirth. 

 

“Well struck, little bird”, he says finally, still rasping out little chuckles. “There’s a clever tongue tucked up in that pretty little head of yours.” “Not empty?”, she asks suddenly. She’s not sure she could abide him thinking her insipid, not after all of this. She might be useless on the road, but the idea of him thinking her a flighty little naif is suddenly too much to bear. “No, girl, not empty.” She notices that his eyes have gone troubled, and wonders what he thinks her head is full of after all. She doesn’t know that she’d like the answer very much. 

 

Instead, she simply holds her tongue and makes herself more comfortable on her pallet, listening to his quiet breathing until her eyes close. 

* * *

 

**Sandor**

 

 _Come along, puppy, don’t keep me waiting_. _Don’t you want to play a game?_

 

Don’t let him find me. Oh Gods, don’t let him catch me. Don’t let him, oh, Gods, _please_. 

 

 _Where have you gone, puppy? Don’t you know you can’t hide from me? I can smell you, little fuck, stinking of milk and mewling like a bitch_. 

 

I choke back a scream, stuffing a hand in my mouth to stifle the noise. He can’t find me. If he finds me, I’ll wish I were dead. I wish I _was_ dead. He can’t chase me there, I don’t think. I’ll go to the Seven Heavens, and Gregor will go to the Seven Hells, and then I’ll never have to see him again. Elynor says that good boys go to the Mother’s Heaven, and I’ve been good. I fed the dogs, practiced my letters, figures and Houses. Even pickled old Maester Barrin’s told Father how good I am.

 

I’m good, and Gregor’s not, and one day I’ll go somewhere he can’t chase me and I’ll be safe. 

 

But instead he opens the last kennel door and smiles down at me. _Found you, puppy_ , he laughs, and I can’t help it, can’t fight it, can’t keep it in. 

 

I scream and scream and scream. I am four years old. 

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

He is silent when he holds me down and I smell my face melt on to the coals. Baby fat snaps and sizzles in the fire. It smells of crackling, crisp and perfectly charred. I used to love crackling. Father would always have a suckling pig roasted for my name day, and Elynor would serve me the choice cuts, the crunchiest parts. She preferred the tender meat, but I liked sinking my teeth into the hardened flesh and tearing, pretending I was one of our hounds for true. 

 

 _Please, Mother, please_ , I beg and pray and scream. I’m not sure if I mean the Mother of us all, or if I mean _our_ Mother, mine and Gregor’s and Elynor’s, long since dead and buried. It doesn’t matter. Neither answer. I scream and scream until I feel something give; I gag and spit blood out of my throat. Something fleshy goes too and lands in a lump, cooking on the coals along with my cheek and my hair. It all smells burnt and the pain is so hot it’s a cold agony. I keep screaming. 

I know better than to ask him to let me go. Distantly I can hear shouting and I can feel his hands being tugged away, but he resist all attempts. I know this in the small corner of my mind that is detached, staring at the scene from a height. My mind flies away, leaving the pain and the horror to the body below. 

 

 _Who is this boy tucked under one arm and writhing in agony?_ , I wonder for one blissful moment. _Who is this man holding him down into the conflagration?_  

 

The boy that I am not screams and screams and _screams_ , animalistic and ragged. He does not die, he does not lapse into unconsciousness. That would be a mercy. Gregor is not merciful. 

 

 _I wish someone would kill that boy; he is a long time in dying_. It would be a kindness to put a wretched little thing like him out of his misery. I would silence his screaming if I could, put him out of Gregor’s reach for good. But I can’t, because he is me and I am suddenly back in my flesh, jerking on the floor as the fire crackles merrily. Gregor has released me, but I can hear him roaring with laughter from down the hall, echoing through the empty stone halls of the Keep. 

 

I cannot scream, only moan in agony as men throw wet cloths over me. I can’t feel my face. I don’t think it’s still there. I am six years old. 

 

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Elynor sits by my bedside. Dunk curls beside me, my fingers buried in the ruff of his ruddy coat. My meal of savoury broth lies forgotten and congealing on the bedside table. 

I can’t open my mouth much to eat, food sluices out of the hole in my cheek, and I can’t abide the smell of cooked meat. As soon as I could stomach solid food, Elynor tried to tempt me with roast pork. She knew it had been my favourite. I had screamed and screamed until she’d looked from my face down to the crackling and then thrown the meal, trencher and all, out of the window. She had never looked away from my face, not even at first, and I had not been served meat since then. 

I saw the wreckage once, and only the once. I’d broken every mirror in the Keep after that, and Elynor’s stony glare had kept the servants from replacing them. I am thankful for her small mercies. They’re few and far between these days, and I’ll take whatever I can get from whomever will give it. 

“Sandor”, Elynor says, stroking her hand through my hair gently. “Sandor, I have something to tell you.” 

 

Her voice is quiet, soft. _Too_ soft. Elynor is a Clegane, for all she’s a lady, and she can hold her own. She’s only very rarely quiet, and when she is my skin crawls. It never means well. I shrink into myself, try to make myself as small as possible. “Sandor, sweetling, I’ve had a raven from the Rock.” She takes a deep breath, and my stomach sinks. “He’s been given leave to come home for a visit. I’m sorry”, I hear her whisper, even as her tears dampen my neck. “I’m so sorry, sweetling, I’m so sorry.”  

 

Less than a fortnight later, Elynor hears me scream and tries to protect me from Gregor. She dies. 

 

This time, he’s killed my sister and my dog, and he beats me bad. _Look at you, puppy_ , he laughs like a snarl, jerking his chin to the puddle of piss I’ve released in my fear, _you’ve made a mess. You know what we do to puppies who have misbehaved. We_ punish _them._ I am too bloodied to run away, too weak and helpless to fight. He holds the candle to the good side of my face with his teeth bared in a smile. _Should I make you match?_ , he asks, and grabs my burnt jaw in his cruel hands as the wax drip down on to my cheek. 

 

I scream anyways, just like Gregor wanted.

 

 

—And I wake up screaming, thrashing hard enough to send the little bird flying off me a good few feet. She hits the ground with a hard thump and a little cry of pain. Her breath is wheezing in her lungs as she struggles to suck it back in. _Fuck, fuck fuck._ I’m still shaking, eyes wild and breath ragged. My back is to the weirwood and my hand is on the pommel of my sword. I haven’t had a dream that bad in years; the wine dulls most of it but now I’m out, and the Blackwater hadn’t helped the matter any, dredging up shit better left forgotten. 

 _Focus, you fool_ , I snarl to myself. The little bird hasn’t moved much, only to lift her head and watch me with those cornflower blue eyes of hers. Feels like I’m being stripped to the bone by them, sharp as flaying knives. I huddle in to myself, too afraid to touch her, sure she’ll rebuff me. _You’ve hurt her now, same as the others._

 

“Little bird”, I whisper brokenly, struggling to apologize. She surprises me even then, picks herself up and dusts herself off. _A fighter, that one_ , I think distantly, though I wish I didn’t know how she’d gotten accustomed to being knocked down. “I’m sorry.” It’s a paltry apology, but it is one nevertheless. I can see a bruise starting to blossom up her arm from where she’d hit the dirt, and at this moment I’d like nothing more than to fall on my own sword. _I won’t hurt you_ , I’d promised, such a big man making oaths like that. Now I’ve gone and painted her in blue bruises like some bloody ser. 

 

“Please”, she murmurs, sidling closer to me with every passing moment. She’s approaching with her hands visible, steps measured. Cautious, but not afraid—the same way she treats the horse when he’s in a temper, I notice, and could laugh if it weren’t so damned sickening. I’m naught but a beast now, a hound savaging anyone who comes close enough. And then she sits beside me, prim as you please, skirts folded around her. “Please”, she repeats, meeting my gaze, “don’t apologize. It was my own error. You were having a nightmare.” She looks away into the middle distance, eyes remote, and I realize in a flash that I’ve seen similar expressions on other faces. _It’s the same look men have when sharing a bathhouse or pissing in the open._ It’s an abstracted look, unfocused and impersonal. _Is the little bird trying to preserve my dignity?_ I’m strangely touched, though not at all surprised by her courtesy. She would be kind enough not to rub my nose in my failings. 

 

“True enough, little bird, but there was no excuse for throwing you.” Which suddenly begs the question: _what was she doing close enough to toss_? 

 

It’s as though she can read my thoughts; she blushes prettily, pink in the early dawn light. “It was my own error”, the little bird chirps, insistent as a cardinal. “You were…distraught. You said _Gregor_ , and…”, she pauses, averts her gaze again. I can see the water in her eyes, but the tears do not fall. _Tough little bird._ “It sounded unpleasant. I tried to wake you…”, and then I realize, in a flash, what had woken me up. 

 

Gregor had never grabbed my cheek. 

 

For all that he could easily have done, he’d never touched my cheek. That had been the little bird, trying to wake me. _But the burnt side…did she grab the burned flesh?_ A look at her pink cheeks gives me the answer. “I’m very sorry”, she whispers, sounding thoroughly ashamed of her forwardness. Her Septa would be scandalized, I’m sure, but the old hag’s food for crows and in no position to pass judgement here. 

“My fa-“, the pauses, struggles to get the word out in a voice thick with sorrow, “My father told me once that a cornered animal was the most dangerous. When I was a little girl, one of the dogs had gotten hurt on a hunt. She’d been tended to, but was still in a great deal of pain. I’d known her since she was a puppy, and I foolishly thought she would recognize me.” She smiles then, a little thing, and I think I detect a little hint of wryness through the pain. “I thought my kiss would heal her.” She pauses, and then visibly wilts. “I was very silly. A kennel-boy had to intervene and hold her off, and his arm was bitten while he was protecting me. My father told me then that a wounded and frightened creature would act unpredictably and dangerously.” 

 

“And that you should avoid it”, I tell her, voice still shaking with the effort of fighting back the urge to retch. The little bird should never have come; I could have killed her and not known until the dream subsided. 

 

“That I should not provoke it”, she retorts, prim little voice cutting through the fog of self-disgust that roils through my gut. “I feel safe with you”, she says, voice gentling. I don’t know why she does, as she shouldn’t, but I can’t smell a lie. _The little bird means it true; she does feel safe with you. See that you don’t give her reason to regret that, dog._ “Sometimes, I simply forgot how very large you are.”

 

“Don’t do it again”, I tell her. “If I’m dreaming, leave me be.” She shoots me a look of hurt and betrayal. ‘I was only trying to help!”, she blurts out, and I realize that the wound is not in the tone but in the delivery; she thinks me ungrateful. The part of me that still wants to go somewhere Gregor can’t follow is an insistent needle in my chest, and so I take a breath and soldier on. “No, little bird, you misunderstand. Do not do that again, because might be next time, I mistake you for Gregor for true.” Her eyes widen, and I shake my head. “When the dreams come, it’s harder to tell truth from memory. Gregor is bigger even than me.” I pause, make my voice stern. “And I am much bigger than you. I don’t want to hurt you, girl, but I can. Might be I do if you come near me during one.” 

She watches me for a second and then nods, short and sharp like a little officer taking battlefield commands. “I understand”, she murmurs. “But I can’t leave you to suffer. It was awful, you know”, she adds as though I weren’t intimately aware—or perhaps knowing precisely how awful it could be. She knows the story, so she can imagine it. “It was awful, and you were in pain, Sandor, true pain. I didn’t know what else to do.” Her hands flutter in distress for a moment, resting on my hand lightly for a second before flitting back to her lap and nestling in the folds of her skirts. “If there is a next time”, she murmurs pensively to herself, “perhaps I should poke you with a stick.” She sounds as though she’s seriously considering it. 

 

I gawp at her, and then snort out a laugh. It’s easier to ignore the memories when there’s something to focus on, and a little bird with feathers red as the weirwood leaves we’re tucked into is distraction enough for any man. “Most uncourteous, little bird. What would your sainted Septa say?” Her face freezes for a second, that court mask threatening to rise, and then she deliberately lowers it. “Nothing you would enjoy hearing”, she says softly, and I snort again. “Like as not you’re right.” She smiles at me, though it’s wan, and I wish I’d not brought up the dead woman who now rests between us. 

 

The little bird picks a twig from her braid and I feel an acute pang of disgust at myself. “I _am_ sorry, Lady Sansa, for hurting you”, I mutter, mustering up every ounce of Casterly Rock courtesy I know. The little bird deserves it; injured as she was trying to help me. It’s worth swallowing my pride just to see her smile at me. Then she stuns me even further, leaning forward with her little hand on my knee, long fingers curled around the bone for balance. She comes in close as she can, and then very softly and very delicately presses a kiss to my cheek. 

 

The _burnt_ cheek. 

 

 “I forgive you, Sandor”, she whispers, close enough that I can feel her breath ruffle my hair, and then she’s pulling away. Cat-quick, she curls in to the soot-stained Kingsguard cloak and tugs the hood up over her hair, turning her back to me and giving every impression of going to bed. Still, she’s not quite fast enough, and I can see a stain of pink high up on those fine cheekbones of hers before she turns away. 

 

 _What the fuck was_ that?, I ask myself, and dearly wish we had wine. 

* * *

**Sansa**

 

She hears a hoarse scream and bounds suddenly into full wakefulness. She had seen Lady do something similar once; laying in front of the fire with her eyes closed, Grey Wind had snuck up and given her tail a nip. She’d startled from asleep to a fighting stance in a moment, teeth bared until she’d realized it was only her brother. 

 

Sansa has no such reassurance. Her brothers are dead. _Not all of them_ , she reminds herself, determined to be grateful for small mercies. _Not Robb. I still have one_. 

 

She looks around in the dark for this latest threat. Her mind fills with all the things capable of making her companion scream—but the only one that could suffice would be an ambush. _The men have returned_ , she thinks frantically, and scrambles towards his pallet. _I won’t let them take me. I_ won’t _go back to Joffrey_. She knows where Sandor keeps his knife, saw him tuck it away after she’d sliced her hand on the blade. _I will reach it before they grab me_ , she promises herself desperately. _I’ll slit my throat. I will._  

 

The scream sounds again and she freezes. This time she can see the hulking mass that is Sandor give an aborted flail, struggling against an enemy he can’t hope to best. _Gregor’s come to visit_ , she realizes suddenly, horror thick in her throat. His tears leave tracks in the dirt on his face and she feels her heart give a sharp pang. She can’t leave him, _won’t_ leave him, to the monsters he’s trapped with in his mind. The memories run him ragged, she knows, and leave him wrecked. _He didn’t leave me with Joff. I won’t leave him with Gregor_. 

 

She scoots closer, watching for a moment longer as he tosses and turns, lip twitching sharply and limbs jerking. _Oh, Sandor_ , she thinks suddenly, and grieves for him. His distress spurs her on and she sidles close as she dares. Reaching out and running a hand over his arm accomplishes nothing, the metal plate blocking all sensation. She chuffs an unladylike little sigh and strokes her hand through his hair in an attempt at rousing him. He tosses his head but does not wake, too lost in horror to surface so cleanly. 

 

 _Well_ , she thinks, _in for a copper, in for the dragon_ , and cups her hand against the burnt flesh of his cheek. 

 

The skin is dry and smooth, almost leathery. It feels strange, but not as ghoulish as she had expected. It is not entirely objectionable, and the horror of it is mitigated by the strength it would have taken to survive the burning. She doesn’t think she’s met anyone stronger; she’d scalded herself as a younger girl with some over-hot tea and had babied the little blisters for days. Even so, it had hurt the entire time it had healed. She can’t begin to imagine the pain a burn of that magnitude would encompass, nor how a child could have survived it. 

 

“ _No_!”, she hears and then she is flying through the air. She hits the dirt with a hard thud, the pain jarring up her shoulder and hip from where she’d landed. Momentarily dazed, Sansa looks about only to see him backed against the tree, sword in his hand and eyes wild. 

 

 _Oh, lovely._ The voice in her head is acerbic, tart as soured vinegar. _You wanted him awake. Did you think to plan for what you would do once he was?_  

 

She had, perhaps, failed to consider the possibility of a half-mad Hound panting and staring at her as though she’s stepped on his tail. He looks panicked and, underneath that, disgusted with himself. She can tell by now that he is angry with himself for striking her. In truth she’s aching from the blow and knows she’ll bruise, but she knows what intentional cruelty looks like, and this is not it. _He is no_ _Ser Meryn to beat me for the pleasure of it, only a frightened creature too unused to kindness to trust an outstretched hand._

 

She remembers a dog her father once owned who had been wounded on a hunt; she’d tried to heal the normally sweet hound with a kiss and had nearly been savaged for her trouble. A stablehand had needed rows of stitches as the result of her error. _At least today, the only one injured as a result of my lack of foresight was myself._ She watches him until he settles, and when he calls her little bird, she moves. She does not think he will hurt her again, as it would be difficult indeed to mistake her for the Mountain, but she moves deliberately all the same. Sansa dusts herself off and settles beside him with measured footsteps, hands clearly visible. 

 

She tells him of the hound, hopes he understands. _I don’t blame him. How could I, when I reached out to him? He doesn’t frighten me any longer, but that doesn’t mean he’s shrunk in size. He’s very strong, and a brutal fighter in to the bargain. I should not have moved within reach, not when he was insensate and terrified. That was foolish, and I must not be a foolish little girl any longer._ _Even a loyal dog may lash out in blind panic._

 

Thus girded, she turns back to their conversation in time to hear him tell her to leave him be. She will not. 

 

“I understand”, Sansa hears herself murmur, “but I can’t leave you to suffer. It was awful, you know. It was awful, and you were in pain, Sandor, true pain. I didn’t know what else to do.” She feels her hands tremble and clasps them in front of her. _Be still. Be ice_. Think _of how to rectify the problem, instead of shivering over it like a frightened sparrow._ “If there is a next time”, she thinks aloud, “perhaps I should poke you with a stick.” It might be an effect of the long, strange night, but Sansa seriously considers how long of a stick she would need to have in order to avoid the inevitable blows. She wonders if she might even be able to lift it, for all that it needs must be so long. Then she’s forced to imagine herself prodding at the Hound until he jerks to consciousness, and it is only through strength of will and long practice that she keeps her expression neutral. 

 

 _If I laugh, he would probably assume it was at him_. 

 

She clamps her lips together, just in case, but his own laugh is nearly enough to undo her. He’s different when he laughs. Not that bark of noise she’d heard sometimes in the Red Keep; that had been harsh and stripped bare. This is bemused, and she basks in it like a lizard-lion in the sun. It changes him, makes him infinitely less frightening. He seems only a man, then. 

 

 _Give your head a shake. He’s a killer, not some puppy for you to adopt and tame to hand_ , she chides herself. _But once I had a tame direwolf,_ her mutinous mind supplies _, and I made her love me._ Her eyes slide to the man who rescued her, the man she chose to run away with. _Get her a dog_ , a dead king echoes in her head, _she’ll be happier for it_. “I am sorry, Lady Sansa”, Sandor rasps, voice sick with contrition and eyes down like a kicked cur. 

 

“I forgive you, Sandor”, she whispers, and rests her hand on the jut of his knee for balance. Sansa leans down so very slowly, and presses her lips to the burned cheek in front of her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few songs that may help set the mood here; interested parties may want to check out: 
> 
> "Come Away To The Water" by Maroon 5 and "We Know Where You Sleep" by The Paper Chase.  
> The former is Sansa's little Northern ditty, and the second is the intensely disturbing song that inspired Sandor's flashbacks. 
> 
> For the curious, songs will occasionally appear in the text, and you might begin to notice a theme. My mental conception of the North is a bit austere, and a bit less 'cultured' than the South; I imagine their music as being mostly acoustic with intricate harmonies and--as Sandor says--grimmer themes. 
> 
> "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift ft. The Civil Wars, "Kingdom Come" and "The Devil's Backbone" by the Civil Wars are also very good examples.


	6. If It Please You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a week of riding rough, the two fugitives from King's Landing are forced to rely on the kindness of strangers.

**Sandor**

 

“Don’t go kissing men you’re not married to, little bird. It gives the wrong impression”, I tell her after a long stretch of quiet. It’s a rebuke, but I try to keep my tone level all the same. I can feel her tense against me, but the little bird needs know. “This isn’t one of your stories, girl. You’re alone in the woods with a strange man.” I beetle my brows at her and stare hard. She needs learn that she can’t trust _anyone_ , and in a hurry. She’ll be back at Court soon enough, though it be her King brother’s. If she thinks he’ll not look at her as a pawn to play for his advantage, she’s in for a rude awakening. In my experience, kings are kings, not kin—and Stranger willing, I’ll have outlived two soon, so I’ve seen enough to know what I’m about. “Pass me the saddle blanket, girl”, I tell her brusquely and she hops to obey. There’s a little moue of discontent on her lips as she turns to grab it, but that’s not my problem. 

 

She drops her eyes for a second as she hands it to me and then steels her spine. That mantle of dignity comes up to shroud her like a cloak and she stands with her shoulders back, chin high, stern and stiff as a little soldier. I respect that; girl’s got grit, but she doesn’t think things through and that’ll make my job—and her life—harder than needs be. 

 

“It was just a kiss on the cheek, Sandor”, she tells me softly. _Innocent little bird_ , I think, with a strange mix of impotent anger and desperate fear. I’ve tried to open her eyes a bit, but she’s still got some songs stuck in her head. Her sweetness is going to get her head on a spike if she’s not canny, and I don’t presume I’ll be pinned up next to her. That’s for nobles and notaries; I’m sure there’ll be something slower for me. “Stupid little bird”, I tell her bluntly, because it’s true, even as she shoots me a look that could curdle cream from under her lashes when she thinks I’ve looked away. She’s being foolish, and it rankles me to the bone. I pull my belt-knife out of its sheath, point it at her. To her credit, she doesn’t quail, just she looks at me with those big blue eyes flat as gems. “What is this?”, I rasp at her and she looks from the knife in my hand to my face. _She must think you’ve gone mad_ , I think even as Stranger prances at the sight of the blade. I give him a gentle slap on the neck and he settles again. “It’s a knife”, she tells me after a moment. “Exactly. A little knife.” I test the weight in my hand and then hurl it sharp and hard, leave the blade sunk to the hilt in a birch tree. “ _Just_ a little knife, but it’ll kill you dead as Valyrian steel, little bird.” 

 

She watches pensively as the hilt sways from the movement, understanding dawning slowly. She drops her gaze when the lesson sinks home, stands there stock-still with those dragonfly hands clasped in front of her like she’s facing down the pack of lions once more. Can’t abide that dispirited look, least of all when I’ve put it there. “Don’t leave it stuck, girl”, I chide her. “Fetch it back.” That breaks her spell and she huffs out a little breath but does as she’s told while I finish preparing for the road. “Perhaps I should convince my brother to keep you on as my Septa, instead of my sworn shield”, I hear her mutter mutinously. I can’t help the barked laugh that escapes at her boldness. “Little bird has a temper, does she?”, I tell her, voice low. “Might be I’d look fetching in that wimple, and what would you do then?” 

She raises amused eyes to me then, and I meet her gaze steadily. “Well, I suppose I’d ask you to help me practice with my needle—”, she starts, and then freezes with a stricken expression on her face. “ _Needle_ ”, she whispers, and then the sorrow comes crashing down around her. That pretty face of hers falls and her lip quivers, Tully eyes wet wet as rainclouds. _What do you do with a crying girl?_ I’ve never had to worry about it. Though I’ve made many and more cry, I’ve never stuck around for the aftermath, and Cersei wasn’t like to search me out for comfort. 

 

_If she cries at all. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a snake shed a tear. Might be she don’t._

 

I give the girl’s shoulder a squeeze, light as I can manage. It seems to work, and she sucks in a great, shuddering breath. “My apologies”, she whispers. Her hands tremble and so she clasps them together again. _No wonder she held them like that at Court, then. She must have been scared every minute of every day. Might be the only smart thing she did; those cats can scent fear. “_ It was only…”, and she exhales slowly now, “Arya had a sword she named Needle.” She laughs, a hint of mania in her voice. “She thought I didn’t know, but we were in each others’ pockets for so long that it wasn’t hard to see. _Needlework_ , she’d say, and come back to the Tower with sweaty hair.” The little bird shakes her head, wry. “She said Father had hired her a dancing master, but that was the silliest lie I’d ever heard.” The wretched little laugh is back, thick with loss. “Arya had no patience for dancing, and Father indulged her terribly. _Dancing_ ”, she snorts, “Oh, I would have laughed to see it, I’m sure. I was awful”, she confesses suddenly, the words escaping her in a rush. “She was always underfoot, never proper, never polite, and oh, I was _awful_ to her. I wish I could take it all back”, she says and the sorrow in her voice is clear as the Sapphire Sea. She drops her head, hiding behind that glorious fall of hair. “I don’t know what I’ll tell Mother; Arya ran away, or she’s dead in a ditch somewhere, and I don’t know which. She asked me to look out for her, to care for her, and I picked _Joffrey_ and now she might be dead.” She pauses then, inhales deep and looks me dead in the face. She’s steadying herself, and her next words hit me in the stomach like a punch. “You would tell me if— if she _was_ dead, wouldn’t you? If you knew, if there had been some word, if the Lannisters found her. You would tell me?” She sounds almost hopeful, if only for something like closure, and for once I won’t needs be the one to dash that look from her face. “Yes, little bird. I’d tell you”, I hear myself say. She holds herself with a dangerous stillness, brittle as marzipan.  

 

I’m silent for a moment and then snort lowly. “Though I wouldn’t worry. That one threw the little bastard’s sword in the Trident and ran off, made it near four days in the woods on her own, didn’t she?” I laugh low. “Though the little wolf’s but small, she’s mighty. She’s got a better chance than most”, and then scoff at a thought. “Even with that ridiculous sword. _Needle_. Seven Hells.”

“Needle is a good name”, the girl chirps, doubtless duty-bound to protect her littermate. “Anyways, lots of people name their swords.” 

“Lots of cu—”, I bite the word off in midair with a snap of my teeth. _She prayed to the Mother to gentle you, cur. Mind yourself._ “—Knights. Lots of _knights_.” Even in her grief, the little bird still hides a smile in her sleeve. “If she were dead, I would tell you, believe that—but if she is, nobody said so where I could hear it.”

 

Sansa pauses then, raising those long fingers to her lips pensively. “And you heard everything, didn’t you?” There’s a different quality to her stillness now, the same watchful, wolfish consideration of the night before, and I wonder what’s clicking along behind those pretty eyes of hers. “Most of”, I agree cautiously, and she nods. “I had thought so.” Another pause and then a breath, and she resumes, “Arya may not be dead and may yet find her way home.” “Might be she does”, I agree with some hesitation, as I’ve no desire to raise the little bird’s hopes too high. A fierce little wolf her sister might be, but still a pup, and friendless in to the bargain. “Assuming we make it there ourselves. Ought to move, girl, or we’ll grow moss.” She releases a slow hiss of air and allows me to lift her to the saddle. We’ve a long ride, and I’ll be glad to be away from that damned tree. It’s foolish, I know, but I’ve felt its eyes on me all day. 

 

_Bloody Northerners; even their trees are grim._

* * *

**Sansa**

 

He sets a brutal pace, riding as swiftly as he’s able away from the weirwood clearing and further north and west. Though she is bone-weary, she knows it is a necessity; the further into the Riverlands they go the more exposed they are as the forest thins away. She checks her hood again, though soot and the grease of a long, unwashed ride has turned her hair a mousy shade of russet, like a potato pulled out of a dusty root cellar. Once, the thought would have made her turn her nose up in disdain but now Sansa is pleased; the flaming Tully red that has ever been her crowning glory and most recognizable feature will now be the target of every sell-sword in the Seven Kingdoms. 

 

 _Let them look; I’ll tuck myself into drab colours like a partridge in the brush until it’s safe again_. 

 

Hours pass with only the clinking of the horses’ bridle to break the silence. She supposes that Sandor must be used to it; there’s little reason for a shield to speak, and she’s certain the Lannisters rarely saw the need to ask his opinion. Truth be told, the rawness of her grief leaves Sansa indisposed to idle chatter. No doubt he would deride her for her attempts at courtly conversation but more importantly, her belly has begun to ache, a low thrum of discomfort that steadily seeps into her bones. 

 

Finally a sharp stab as they leap a fallen log has her crying out, and he pulls in the reins quickly. Guiding the horse off the path, he cants his eyes to hers. “What now, girl?”, he rasps, and were she not so familiar with him after their days in constant company, she might be offended by his apparent lack of sympathy. Instead, she simply grits her teeth as another pang stabs through her, stifling the little whimper that threatens to escape. _Bite your tongue before you show weakness_ , she commands herself fiercely. _You’re stronger than this_. She can see what she thinks is concern flash for a moment in the grey of his gaze before it sinks like a pebble into a pond. That reassures her slightly; she is not alone out here, for all that he is a gruff companion. “Pardons, but I needs rest a moment.” She blushes, the convenient excuse one she’d rather not say aloud. “And perhaps some privacy, if you would be so kind.” He raises an eyebrow but helps her down all the same. “Don’t fly too far, little bird”, he warns her in that low rasp. “We’re near the road, so keep canny.” She nods and excuses herself, quickly making way just out of sightline. 

 

With her stomach in knots, she slides a hand under her skirts. To her dismay, she finds her smallclothes wet to the touch; in the darkness, the fingers she raises carry the distant scent of iron. _Oh no,_ she thinks desperately, and could cry with mortification. _Of all the wretched timing_. She had hoped to make it to Riverrun before…well, before this conversation had become a necessity. The thought of explaining the situation to her shield is less than appealing; he is, as he said, both male and a stranger for all their camaraderie in the woods. 

 

 _Then again_ , she reminds herself grimly, _everyone in the Red Keep knew I was soon to flower. This cannot be more humiliating than being common gossip_. Joffrey had not cared enough for her to grant her the dignity of discretion, and so everyone had heard his crass remarks. _What is one more small indignity in the grand scheme of things? A single snowflake can not cause an avalanche_. In any case, necessity demands it; unless she’d like to shred her filthy cloak, they needs must soon find a village. It is a risk, but she hopes they are close enough to Riverrun that the commons may be loyal. She considers her luck since leaving Winterfell and suspects she isn’t likely be so fortunate. 

 

Still, she has wasted enough time in the bushes and she expects her guard will likely come looking. The thought is somehow reassuring. Her absence would be missed, and he would not leave her unattended for long. In King’s Landing, she had hated the surveillance; now, a wanted fugitive, she finds it comforting. She knows her faithful hound would never let her disappear like her sister. Nerves steady again, she wipes her hand on the ruined fabric of her smallclothes and trudges back to the destrier. 

“Took long enough”, he grouses, and she clasps her hands in front of her and steels herself. “Apologies, but we needs must stop at the next town.” 

“No”, Sandor replies immediately, and Sansa grits her teeth. “Pray reconsider”, she hears herself say, the steel in her voice making his good eyebrow wing upwards in surprise. “It is a necessity.” “Really”, he drawls, almost sardonic. “And what’s so necessary it’s worth us both dying for?” 

 

 _Mother give me strength_ , Sansa thinks desperately, and bids farewell to the last scraps of her dignity. “Nothing I may discuss with a man who is not my lord husband—without giving the wrong impression”, she snips, prim as a princess, cheeks flaming so abruptly that her skin itches. It takes a moment, but the shell-shocked look on his face is enough to almost, _almost_ , cheer her up. She has seen the man fight the Mountain, has seen him hack his way through a riot to rescue her and emerge unscathed. He’s even faced off against a mad king _twice_ and been none the worse for it. She’s seen Sandor Clegane do the impossible fearlessly and now he looks thrown, completely out of his depth. 

 

She notices suddenly that he won’t meet her eyes, even looking over her shoulder in a perfect parody of a sworn shield’s impassive gaze.

 

 _The fierce warhound, unmanned by a little blood_ , she thinks wryly, but bites her cheek before she can smile at the absurdity of it. “The next village, then”, he says, still taking pains to examine a particularly interesting tree just to the left of her ear. “Could be we hear some news of your kingly brother. If nothing else we’ll top up the wine.” She gives him a sharp look at that and he shrugs. “I needs must sleep, little bird, whether you approve or no.” Sansa sighs but does not argue; she knows he relies on the wine for his rest and does not begrudge him his meagre comforts—she only wishes they did not needs come at her expense. “If you must”, she concedes, but he catches her gently by the chin and finally meets her eyes. “You disapprove”, he rasps, and she can only agree. She knows he would smell a lie. 

“It is not the wine that troubles me”, she confesses, “but the drunkenness.” He bares his teeth in a snarl but she holds her ground, meeting his gaze implacably. “You can be cruel when you drink, Sandor”, she tells him bluntly, remembering his preference for plain speech. “Pardon my candour, but you have only ever treated me poorly while in your cups. You must know I rely upon you absolutely”, and although admitting her helplessness rankles her pride she carries on doggedly, “and I would…much rather have your company than your callousness.” 

 

He watches her for a moment and then snorts, derisive. “My company? No-one cares for the company of dogs, my lady”, he sneers through twisted lips, and Sansa allows herself a very unladylike sigh of exasperation. “Wolves do”, she reminds him quietly, “provided the dog is not savage.” He does not have a response for that, and she wonders if perhaps she has scandalized him so thoroughly he will never speak to her again. She realizes now that she might miss it; coarse though he may be, he’s honest and occasionally almost funny. She’d miss his observations, the vinegary little barbs she has come to appreciate—provided, of course, that they’re not aimed at her. _I will simply have to ensure that Robb keeps him with me,_ she thinks suddenly. _I would feel safer for having him serve me; if nothing else, I can rely upon him to tell me the unvarnished truth. Mother have mercy, but I am sick to tears of liars._

 

They’re back in the saddle soon enough and although the ache in her belly persists, she grits her teeth and soldiers on. The less she complains, the faster they will ride and the sooner this will all be behind her. She’ll be safe in Riverrun with Mother and Robb and Grey Wind; she’ll be able to bury her face in that warm ruff of fur and finally mourn. _I should feel wicked, missing a pet more than a parent, and yet_. She grieves for Lady and while she’ll see her family again, however small and splintered it may now be, Lady is gone for good. She misses the quiet companionship of her wolf, and the hollowness in her bones when she thinks of her aches like an abscessed tooth. It feels fundamentally wrong to be without her Lady, a hole no mere pet could ever hope to fill again. She feels rudderless, but even as the tears prickle behind her eyes, she refuses to cry. _Enough_ , she commands herself firmly, dragging her mind away from its path of sorrow. A memory from a dream wafts upwards in her mind like a warm breeze redolent with jasmine. _If I look back, I am lost_ , the voice had whispered, and so Sansa does not allow herself to waver. 

 

“Do you think there will be baths?”, she asks after a moment, forcibly distracting herself. “Why?”, he replies tartly. “Afraid that lying down with a dog will leave you with fleas?” She rolls her eyes at that. “For a swordsman of your calibre, you’ve a terribly low estimation of yourself”, she retorts quickly. “Because the Lannisters were so quick to praise”, Sandor growls back, and she shifts in the saddle to look at him. “Do I look like a Lannister?”, she snaps, her temper flaring up like a stoked fire. “Do you mistake me for _Cersei_? I should never be so insulted”, she snarls, baring her teeth at him suddenly. He blinks at her flatly, and were her ire not already raised, she might quail at the unladylike image she must present. _A lady must never be harsh in word or deed_ , Septa Mordane’s voice recites, but she shoves the memory to the side. Septa Mordane is dead, and the world is not a song. _If she had taught me that instead of how to flatter and charm, I might not have been so stupid, and Father might still be alive._

She stews in her anger for a moment longer, until Sandor’s voice breaks her reverie. “You’re no Cersei, little bird”, he tells her, voice rueful. “She’s a snake, make no mistake.” “Then do not make the mistake again. You are my sworn shield now”, she announces with finality, “and I will brook no insult to a man in my service.” 

“A man in your service”, and his voice is a dark rumble that makes the skin of her neck prickle suddenly, “And do I serve you, girl?” 

 

Once, a master glass-smith had come to Winterfell, and she had been shown a marvel: layers of watered paint washed over thin pieces of glass. When the glass was held to light, the painting had leapt vividly to life. This is similar, Sansa thinks; his words transparent as the layered ink, thin washes of colour and smoke that seem inconsequential until illuminated. “If it please you”, she replies recklessly, and meets his gaze. 

 

This time, he drops his first and in the quiet corner of her mind that is more wolf than maid, Sansa rejoices.  

* * *

**Sandor**

 

“A wedding”, I tell her through a mouthful of roast pigeon. It’s no royal feast, but the the meat’s juicy and the wine is strong enough to take the raw edges off my nerves. Beside me, the little bird has wrapped herself up in one of her clean dresses. Freshly scrubbed from her bath, she seems more the prim little princess I had known in King’s Landing. With that flame-kissed hair hanging in a damp braid over one shoulder and that elegant face cleaned of the dirt of the road, she could be sitting in her solar waiting for her handmaid to perform her evening toilette. 

 

Then she grabs a pigeon leg and bites into it with such gusto that I snort with amusement; she catches herself and flushes, dabbing daintily at where the grease has dripped down her chin. “You have no idea”, she says through a mouthful of food, manners forgotten in the face of this bounty, “how _good_ this is. After all that salted food, I had almost forgotten what fresh fowl tastes like.” She licks her lips, a swipe of that little tongue, and I find myself having to take another swig of the wine just to distract myself. I can smell the scent of lavender heavy on the humid air, wafting stronger every time she shifts. This is a wondrous torture, and I could kick myself for taking a single room. 

 

 _You won’t leave me,_ she had asked tremulously, and bloody great fool I was, I had said no. _So here you are, dog, with a fresh maiden fair reeking of a bower of flowers, and_ one _bed. Seven Hells, but you are a stupid hound_. “I’ll let you plan the next escape then, girl. See how you like it”, I grumble, and she has the grace to blush. “Not that I’m not grateful, of course”, she adds quickly, and I can tell she means it. “It was good of you to share what you had with me; I know I contributed very little.” I wave my hand, brushing her words away like gnats. “Settle yourself, little bird, I was only teasing.” She shifts in her seat, hunkering lower in her sensible woollen dress. It’s still finer than anything these commons are like to have seen before, which is why she’s been tucked away into a soundly locked room and I’ve been set to fetch and carry like a damn packhorse. 

 

To her credit, she had offered to help, but I hadn’t allowed it. Better I do the grunt work than risk her getting recognized. With hot food in my belly, a hot bath and a real bed to look forward to, I don’t much feel like killing anyone today. 

 

“A wedding, then?”, she asks, voice soft now that she’s been fed and tended to. The innkeeper’s wife had sent up some willowbark tea when I’d asked, claiming soreness from the ride. The little bird had drunk it down and now she’s lolling in her seat, warm and relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before. The firelight glints off her hair, raising shades of auburn bright as coals in the dark. I find my eyes drawn to it, even as my mouth responds automatically; a useful skill I’d learned in Cersei’s employ. 

“Mm”, I grunt, finishing off the second drumstick and starting on the wing. She’s right, it _is_ good. “At the Twins. Seems the Lord Trout is off to marry a Frey.” “A _Frey_?”, she asks with obvious surprise. I’d checked to make sure the room was safe once we’d taken it and I’d found no spider holes for listening ears to hide in, but still, I haven’t lived this long with the lions on account of being trusting. I look around again before continuing. “Rumour has it the Young Wolf was meant to marry his pick of the litter, but found himself a Westerling to wife instead.” I wonder if a taste for the West mightn’t run in the family, and then curse myself for a fool and a dreamer besides. _A taste for the West, you idiot? She’s a princess, she has tastes for lemon cakes and silk dresses, not for a fucking dog. Get your head in the game, cur, or you’re like to lose it one way or another._ As soon as I say it, I swear I can see that glittering mind of hers begin to put the pieces together. It’s like watching a game of cyvasse; I’d seen enough of it squiring for the Lannisters, and then hovering in the background for the high Lord Lion and his pride of miserable cats, to know the look a player gets when setting the pieces in their places. 

“He broke his engagement? Oh, _Robb_ ”, she breathes, stroking her fingertips against her lower lip as she thinks it through, and I recall that _Family, Duty, Honour_ are her mother’s words. “They won’t like that. They would have wanted a Frey daughter for Queen in the North.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose suddenly. “They won’t like that at _all_.” “I expect not, little bird. It’s bound to be tense, though surely the Lady of Riverrun and wife of the Lord Paramount of the Trident won’t be a shabby consolation prize.” 

She nods, although she does not seem entirely convinced. “No, but a consolation it will still be.” She sounds deeply mistrustful. I can’t say I blame her; Walder Frey is a prideful man, for all he’s a miserly bastard. Still, what’s done is done. 

 

“We’ll still go, won’t we?”, she asks, and I nod. “The whole host will be there; they’ve been on the move for a while. Might be we catch them, or catch up; a train like that moves more slowly than two riders on horseback.” She beams up at me, sudden as a sunbeam bursting through clouds. “Thank you”, she says, earnestness clear in her voice. “You’ve been very kind to me, and I will not forget it.” I shrug, uncomfortable now under her scrutiny. I’d screamed at her once to look at me, and now when she does exactly as I ask, my skin feels too tight for my bones. “Why did you do it?”, she asks suddenly, and now I’m truly fucked. I take a heavy swig of the wine, sighing when I feel its lightness; time for another trip downstairs. _Or perhaps not_ , I think suddenly, remembering the little bird’s admonition. _You must know I rely upon you absolutely_ , she had told me, so solemn and sweet. With that on my shoulders, I can’t risk it. _I won’t fail in this duty; not now that I’m so close to filling my promise to bring the little bird back to her nest_. Her question hangs unanswered in the air between us, and I sigh, resting my head back against the chair and closing my eyes, the hearth’s warmth and the little bird’s quiet coaxing soothing me better than the wine filling my belly could ever hope to. “I don’t know”, I hear myself reply. 

 

 _Liar_ , I chide myself. _Craven cur, you know why_. 

 

I can’t abide hypocrites, and this makes me one. _Gods be damned_. I suck in a breath through my teeth and keep my eyes closed. “Might be he reminded me of someone”, I confess to her. I pause and then curse myself for a coward. “I told you once that killing was the sweetest thing there is, you remember?” She nods, eyes distant. No doubt she remembers it; she’d called me awful and I’d insulted her lord father. _Might be she had a point about my being cruel to her._ “Well, for some, that’s true. Some men find sweetness in wenching, others in killing. Some men”, and my skin crawls to think of them, men like Aerys, like Joffrey, like my _brother_ , “Some men find sweetness in causing pain.” 

Sansa shivers delicately, clasping her hands. “You were a silly little bird, but I couldn’t leave you with them. He’d have plucked your feathers and had you _roasted_ ”, and to my horror the word cracks as I say it.  She breathes out a little sigh and stares into the fire for a moment. “You remember”, she halts for a moment and seems to steel herself, swallowing down whatever gorge has risen, “you remember on the ramparts. He told me he’d put a son in me.” I grunt an assent; he’d been a filthy little fuck, even then. “What would he have done if I had given him a daughter instead?” 

 

I meet her gaze, flat and frank. “Made you regret it”, I tell her, and she nods. “I think I knew that. I lived in fear of, well”, and she shrugs, gesturing to all of herself. I understand immediately; for all that Joffrey had been a sadist in the making, his hands had been tied. She hadn’t flowered. He had hated that; he despised being denied anything. “Of this”, I agree, and jerk my chin in her direction. “I dreaded it”, she confesses. “I thought him so beautiful once, and believed that made him kind.” She sighs again, and then suddenly reaches out, tugging the wine from my hand and taking a dainty sip. She hisses air out through her teeth at its strength but swallows it down all the same. “I begged to marry him”, she confesses. “I wanted to be Queen, I wanted a life from a song, with pleasure barges and pretty dresses and a handsome king to hold me above all others.” She laughs then, and it’s so bitter it puts my teeth on edge. “Well”, she says softly when she’s done, her eyes lowered as she traces the embroidery of snowflakes on the sleeve of her winter-grey dress, “I wish my new good-sister the joys of it. All I want is to be home with my family.” 

 

“Mm”, I grunt, and wipe my hands on the rag. “We’ll see about making it happen”, I tell her as I get to my feet, “but it won’t be tonight. To bed, little bird; we won’t be staying here past dawn.” She nods, but her eyes shift up to mine quick as a flushed bird. “Where will you be?” I snort. “Behind the screen, girl, scrubbing off the filth of the road. Even dogs need baths.” She rolls her eyes at me and I snort another laugh at her expense as I go about my business. 

 

By the time I’ve returned, the hearth has dimmed to embers and the candles have been blown out; the light is low enough that I find her by the red glint of her hair on the pillow. Dead asleep, she is, lips parted and little, sleepy noises escaping her. We’ve been sharing bedspace for days camping rough but suddenly, I’m stricken in my tracks. She’s a girl, one I want fierce as any craving, and she’s asleep in a plush bed. I know if I follow her in, there’ll be no sleep. Not if I have my way, and how could she fight me off? 

 

With a quiet curse, I begin to set up the pallet on the floor. If I can’t resist temptation, then I won’t expose myself to it. The rustling wakes her up and she lifts her head slowly, a little inquisitive noise breaking the quiet crackle of the fire. “What are you doing?”, she coos, and I cringe like I’ve been caught misbehaving. “Nothing, little bird. Setting up the pallet for the night.” She flaps a hand, still sleep-drunk. “It’s big”, she mumbles, patting the mattress beside her, and my mouth goes dry as Dorne. “It is”, I rasp, and she scoots over to the wall, a tiny little ball of sleepy-sweet girl. “Might as well use it”, she mumbles. “And what will they say when they find out you’ve allowed the dog on the bed”, I prod at her, praying for her to simply think things through for once. 

 

There’s a weighty pause and then a dainty shrug. “Will you be telling them?”, and I freeze. _She does have a point_. Now her voice has the peevish tone of someone who’s been interrupted and would rather return to sleep. Myrcella had had a similar attitude in the mornings, much to the dismay of her handmaids, and the comparison cools my blood enough that I can think again. “No”, I rasp, and she shrugs again. “Nor will I”, comes her response, and I could growl. I’m trying to be decent, and the girl seems intent on testing the limits of my patience. After a moment, she peeps her eyes out from the mess of coverlet and furs, the blue glittering in the half-light. “Please”, she whispers, and now her tone sounds confessional. “I would feel safer.” 

 

 _Oh, shit_. There’s a feeling uncomfortably like panic churning in my stomach.

 

This might be the first time a girl’s felt safer for my presence, but I suppose she’s got reason to be. With my bulk between her and the door, she’s as safe as possible, and it is _that_ thought and that thought alone that has me kicking off the boots and crawling on to the bed in my tunic and breeches. _You are stone, cold steel; you are ice_. I could laugh at myself. _You are a puffed-up jackass, Sandor Clegane. Keep telling yourself that long enough, hound, you might even start believing it_. I hear a little snort, quiet as a dormouse; turning to look at her I see her trying to stifle a little giggle. “What _now_ , girl?”, I say in my sternest tone, and she purses her lip, nodding down at my feet. They’re extended past the edge of the bed, which is bad enough—never a bed big enough in these damned inns, and with her tucked against my back there’s no room to curl up as I’d like—but there’s a hole in one stocking and my toe’s peeped through. When I shift, it pokes through again and I hear another incongruous little giggle. _Silly sleep-drunk girl_ , I huff to myself, but the sound is more pleasant than I’d expected. 

Still, it’s delicious to sleep on a real bed; might be I’ve been spoiled in the Lannister’s service, living high cotton on Casterly Rock gold. Sleeping on pallets is a sport for younger men, and I groan luxuriously as I sink into the mattress. Behind me, I can feel the little weight of her tense up tight as a ball. “Go to bed, little bird”, I grumble at her, good mood soured some by her nerves. “We’ve a long ride tomorrow.” 

 

She nods sleepily and burrows back into the furs, leaving me cold and awake on top of the sheets to laugh at my own bad luck. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone, it's been hectic over here. 
> 
> From here on out, the plot will be picking up; as ever, keep your eyes peeled for easter eggs. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and encouraged!


	7. Those Who Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor make it safely to the Twins--although they might yet live to regret it.

**“We survived. You and I. And those who survive have a duty. Our duty is to do our best to keep on living."  
** _-Haruki Murakami_

* * *

 

**Sansa**

 

 _Stupid fool_ , she’d chided herself the entirety of the next day. _Silly, stupid little fool_. 

 

If the day had been long, the night preceding it had been longer still. She’d thought to be kind with her offer, even gracious—and had expected he would decline, as was proper. She had named Sandor Clegane her sworn shield, had chosen him herself. He had protected her to the best of his abilities through their entire frantic flight from King’s Landing, and had not failed her. _Get her a dog_ , poor King Robert had said, and she was indeed happier for it. 

 

 _You just forgot he wasn’t a dog for true_ , she chides herself as they approach the Twins, the camp spilling out around it in a wash of smoke and stench she can smell on the breeze. _Just because you let Lady sleep on the bed, you invite this one in too? Stupid little girl,_ stupid _little bird, chirping courtesies without the brain to think them through. Did you think he wouldn’t do it? Did you think he would ignore the invitation? You know he wants you—that was clear even at the Keep. Even if you hadn’t been sleeping curled up on the dirt like, well, dogs, even if he had been sleeping in beds this whole time, he hasn’t been in_ yours _._

 

 _Well_ , her traitorous mind supplies, _that’s not quite the whole truth, is it, pretty little liar_. Sansa flushes at the thought of his bulk above her, pinning her to the bed while the river burned, and thanks the Gods she’s facing away from her quiet companion. 

 

 _He wasn’t quiet last night_ , the damnable voice returns, making her cheeks itch with the intensity of her blush. _Not when he took you up on your foolish little offer, not when he stretched out beside you and—_

 

Her mouth goes dry to remember it. 

 

When he had emerged from behind the screen, Sansa had been dozing. The noise of him setting up the pallet had caught her attention, and she had found herself unable to avert her gaze. Freshly scrubbed and smelling of soap and something undefinably wild, like the pines of the Wolfswood, he had seemed somehow more massive for his lack of armour. Warm and unguarded in her comfort, the sight of him clear-eyed and sweet-smelling had been a pleasant one to her sleep-soaked brain. She hoped he was in a sweet mood to match; she’d taken pains to blow out most of the candles and had banked the hearth fires as best she was able before retiring. Now the scent of wood smoke suffused the room like a heavy perfume, making her think of home: of the warmth of Winterfell’s walls, so like a living beast she had sometimes imagined it breathed. She thought, then, of her mother’s dignified smiles and her father’s quiet strength. 

 

She still felt the pang of her father’s loss, but the wine Sandor had brought her with their supper seemed to have dulled the edges of her grief and left her with the sensation of floating, of a wonderful distance between the mess of her life and this moment, where she was safe and cared for. It had been so long since someone had considered her happiness to be worthy of consideration. She had wanted to bask in the sensation like a cat in a sunbeam, had wanted to luxuriate in it. 

 

She had wanted to share it.

 

 _If they know_ , her Septa’s stern voice had scolded her as soon as she’d said it, _you will be ruined. Your reputation will be forfeit, and you will be of no use to anyone. Second-hand brides do not become queens._

 

Perversely, his own words echoing the dead woman’s voice had sealed her decision. She has no desire to be Queen any longer. “Will you be telling them?”, she had asked him peevishly, already knowing his answer. Sandor Clegane was widely known as loyal—to a fault. Whereas once his loyalty had been misplaced, given to those who would use it for ill, Sansa had no desire to do harm or wreak havoc; she had only ever wanted to be loved. She would settle for protected, a sensation now so alien that the novelty was thrilling. 

 

 _And he does make me feel safe_ , she had admitted to herself as he stood stock-still, watching her with that steady grey gaze. His silent intensity still made her wary, as he missed nothing and focused on her most frequently, but his rages had lessened in turn with the drink. While he could still be coarse, he was no longer cruel to her. His massive size and prowess in battle had become reassuring rather than frightening: that same physicality that had fought the Mountain to a draw now stood between herself and those who would hurt her. She could still remember the reassuring bulk of him pressing her against Stranger’s side when the patrol had come through; she had known then that anyone seeking to harm her would have to go through her shield. She doubted the men of a Lannister patrol would be able to succeed where the Mountain himself had failed, and despite her fear, that knowledge had felt like flight, like _freedom_. 

 

So Sansa told the truth, and Sandor Clegane crawled into the big bed with her. 

 

She was not too prideful to concede that perhaps she might have miscalculated.

 

He had been every inch the gentleman, leaving her the covers while he lay above them, back to her and facing the door. He had not touched her, nor even spoken unless spoken to—but he had made that noise, that _damnable_ noise, and every hair on her arms had walked with a sudden surge of something dark and unnameable. It had been an animal noise of contentment, and her reaction had been animal in turn, every muscle clenching in a flinch so sudden it made even the dull ache in her belly dissipate under the strength of it. She had thought she was mad; her skin had gone hot and chilled at once, goose-bumps prickling the skin of her arms under her simple shift. Her heart had raced fast as a hare’s snared in a trap, and she had laid just as still—a woodland creature frozen in its tracks by the presence of a hunter. 

 

He had fallen asleep easily enough. She had spent the rest of the night tossing, full of a sort of hungry ache that made the girl in her want to gnash her teeth and the wolf in her dream of the hunt. 

 

 _Look at you, you little idiot,_ she thinks as she struggles to reign in her memories before she embarrasses herself further _. First Joffrey, now—_ , and her brain skids to a halt at the comparison. 

They’re nothing alike, not in the slightest; where Joffrey is gilded and golden, tousled hair soft as any cornsilk, Sandor is stormy dark, hair the colour of iron-gall ink and eyes dangerous as winter clouds. Joffrey is handsome, and her companion is scarred. Joffrey is…

 

 _Joffrey watched me beg for mercy for Father with hungry eyes, and then commanded his head stuck it on a pike_. _He didn’t even have the strength to do it himself,_ she sneers with frosty disdain. _And I_ never _invited Joffrey into my bed_. 

 

The thought rises up unbidden and the ghost of the ache follows it, but it’s the truth and she can no more argue with it than she can negotiate with a snowstorm. _What has gotten in to you_ , _Sansa?_ , she chides herself firmly. _This is unladylike. You are a Princess of the North. You_ must _hold yourself to a higher standard._

 

Still, the memory of his voice in the fire-dim darkness, decadent as cinnamon and smoke, makes her squirm in the saddle. 

 

“Enough”, he rumbles. “Wriggle around and you’re like to fall off”, he warns her, and his voice in her ear makes her break out in goosebumps. 

 

Sansa wonders what he would do if she leant back, let him carry the weight of her against that broad chest of his, and shivers. _You must recall your courtesies if you are to advocate on his behalf to Robb_ —and the thought alone is enough to set her blood chilling in her veins. She must keep her wits about her, and thinking about the heat of his breath against the shell of her ear will not help. 

 

“No cause to be so skittish, girl”, he rasps, and she’s jolted out of her reverie. “They’re your kin, and they’ll have you back.” She watches him for a second, thrown by the shift in topic, but recovers and nods. “I’m sure they will”, she hears herself murmur, that court-trained acquiescence she so loathes. He hears it in her voice and slows the horse to a walk. “There’s a _but_ in there, little bird. Spit it out.” Sansa’s an obedient girl, and does as she’s told. “ _But_ ”, she starts, and then pauses again, almost unable to air her traitorous thoughts, “but why?” He’s watching her now, eyes assessing. She wonders when she stopped being frightened of his gaze, but between his first rescue and all the myriad surly kindnesses since, she thinks that ship has long since sailed. “Why would they be happy to have me back?” 

 

He’s a silent, steady mass behind her, drawing the words out of her like venom from a snakebite. “I called them traitors. I wrote letters denouncing them, written in my own hand. I wasn’t even clever enough to hide a message in it. Why _should_ they want me back?” 

“Because you’re the sister of the King in the North, and the daughter of a _Tully._ You could have danced naked as your nameday in the Sept of Baelor and they would still want you back.” She snorts at the image before she can remind herself that high born ladies don’t make that sort of noise. “Well, maybe not quite that”, she amends lightly and feels his chuff of amusement ruffle her hair. “No, maybe not ”, he concedes, voice rougher than usual, and Sansa feels a small there-and-gone smile quirk her lips. 

 

She can see the Twins off in the haze of the afternoon, two squat towers perched over the river like some great water-bug. The size of the host camped in front makes her uneasy, though she chides herself for a child. _They’ll know you_ , she tells herself. _They’ll know you for a Stark, and you are very nearly safe_. 

 

 _Very nearly_ , her treasonous mind supplies, and her skin crawls. “S-“, she pauses, the urge to call him _ser_ almost overwhelming this close to the propriety of her brother’s court. “Sandor”, she manages and feels disproportionately proud of the accomplishment, “what if…”, she trails off, unable to even put the thought to word. He looks at her, and then follows her gaze to the looming towers in the distance. “What if they marry you off, you mean”, he says in a voice like steel on granite, brooking no equivocation. After so long on the road, after all their time in the Red Keep, he can read her as easily as a book. She nods, still unable to speak at the magnitude of the thought. 

 

 _I am a princess_ , she thinks suddenly, with a sick squelch of her stomach. _I am a princess, and a princess outranks a Lord Paramount, regardless of where he’s from. My children may not be Starks, but they will carry the blood. If it’s a Stark they want…_ Behind her, Sandor spits in disdain, but doesn’t deny the possibility. She knows his silences, and this one is stony with displeasure. She knows it is not directed at her, and that makes her bold. “You told me once that I would be glad for the hateful things you did”, she blurts out suddenly, twisting to stare at him. He meets her gaze and she knows he remembers. 

 

It had been the first time she’d sparred with him. 

 

 _Why are you so hateful?_ , she had accused him after he had rebuffed her thanks and insulted her father. He’d come in close and though his voice had never raised, she had known the warning for what it was. _You will be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you are Queen, and I am all that stands between you and your_ beloved _King_ , he’d snarled down at her, and she’d had no response for that. 

 

It had been true and she’d known it even as she fled from him. Once she was Queen, she’d be Joffrey’s to do with as he pleased. She thinks of Cersei, grown hateful in her impotence and rage. She thinks of all the Kings she’d ever read of, knows that for every Jaeherys there is a Maegor. _Joffrey would have been worse still than him_. Now she’s the only Stark daughter left, and there’s a castle full of would-be Lord Freys slavering for the chance to slither closer to the throne in the North. 

 

She looks up at Sandor and meets the flat grey of his gaze. 

 

_He will kill anyone who harms me._

 

 _He promised_. 

 

“If it comes to that, little bird”, he murmurs against the crown of her hair and she shifts nervously, “I’ll open the cage door for you myself.” 

 

She smiles at the beautiful impossibility of it all. _I could keep you safe_ , he’d sworn her. _No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them_. The words are a steady weight on her tongue, a vow from a man who takes none and makes fewer still, and it comforts her down to the marrow. For the first time since Lady’s death, she feels properly safe. She allows herself to sag against him in relief and is gratified when he wraps his arm around her waist and tucks her in close. Enveloped in leather and mail, armour and the scent of horse and man that is so uniquely him, Sansa feels more protected than she has in years. “Thank you”, she murmurs, and he rumbles acknowledgement low in his chest. 

 

“Don’t borrow trouble, little bird”, he tells her gruffly, “might be they just missed your pretty chirping.” She smiles at the uncharacteristic optimism. _He must have dusted it off just for me_ , she thinks, and immediately rebukes herself for her sentimentality. _Stop it, Sansa_ , she chides. _You’re silly as maiden in one of the stories, giving cow-eyes to handsome knights. You know better, and if you’re to be sold off like a hor—_

 

Cersei’s words, thick with bitterness, taste rank in her mouth and she feels herself give a full-body shudder. He tenses behind her and loathe to worry him, she simply taps her temple and he settles himself down again like a mastiff, all muscle and protectiveness. _You are not like_ her _. You would do your duty_. 

 

But duty has left a sour taste in her mouth recently; duty kept her an obedient hostage, and her father’s duty to foster-brother, king and crown saw him lose his head in front of her. She thinks of her mother’s words, of what her mother might ask her to do, and suddenly doing her duty seems a heavy obligation.

* * *

**Sandor**

 

I don’t like the look of this keep, bristling with swords and shields enough to storm King’s Landing. Even if the little bird says she’ll vouch for me, words are wind. Steel and strong arms rule the world, and I’ve got one sword and two arms to bear against the armies of the North. _With that fall of Tully-red hair, there’s no mistaking he_ r. _Bugger this, they’d be fools to fire at us_. _But there’s plenty of fools in an army_. The thought makes me uneasy and sensing it, Stranger bares his teeth and prances beneath us.

 

Dusk had fallen as we’d ridden up, and the keep is alight with torches. Snatches of bawdy songs spill from the Great Hall, carved oak doors thrown open wide; by the looks of it, we’re late to the feast. _Might be the little bird makes a pretty wedding present for that wolf brother of hers, but it shouldn’t be_ this _easy to deliver._ I think for a moment of the Lannister armies, drilled to Lord Tywin’s exacting standards. _No wonder she wants you at her back; none of these fools are fit to guard a lady’s chamber pot_. The little bird perches sidesaddle in front of me, long fingers clasped together. No doubt her face is smooth and lifeless as a statue, her little courtier’s mask. _The little bird’s no fool and her mind is sharp as any behind those pretty blue eyes of hers_. She knows what noble girls are good for, and what they’ll do to her once they’ve got her back. _Fastest way of getting her away from Joffrey is to give her to someone else_. Even so, where before she might have dreamed of a marriage to a golden prince, now she might be sold off to some ferret-faced Frey. _Left behind to whelp the next generation of soggy inbreds, all to secure a bloody bridge for her brother._  

 

From the way she’s wringing her hands, she knows it, too. 

 

 _You will be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you are Queen, and I am all that stands between you and your_ beloved _King._

 

Her reminder had brought the words ghosting up from my memory. Darker ones follow it, rising to the surface like predators from the deeps off the Rock, following their prey upwards. I wonder how long she’s suspected this to be her fate. _How much of her kindness has been to bind me that much closer to her?_ I recoil from the thought with a flinch; years of Cersei’s rapacious ambitions have shown me the worst a woman is capable of. For all she’s of the North, I don’t want to believe the little bird could ever be so cold.

 

_Are you sure, dog? Terror does strange things to people._

 

The Kingsguard hadn’t been formed to protect the Queen from the King, and the bruises on the Lannister lioness’ face had been proof enough of that. I think of shaking the truth out of the girl, like scruffing a pup, just to _know_ and have it be done, but the thought curdles in my stomach. I’ve laid hands on women before in battle—but never cold-bloodedly, not as Robert had Cersei. He’d hit her for opening her mouth and for all she’d had a unique ability to spit venom, it had still rankled my gorge to see him strike her like that. _Gregor had hit women, too._ I think of Gregor at sixteen, hulking and cruel and then of Joffrey, smaller but no less vicious. I think of all the messes I’d cleaned up for the princeling, little _accidents_ with small animals and serving girls. He’d always been the sort of boy to pull the wings off butterflies. Gregor’d had his little accidents, too.

 

 _When I am all that stands between you and your beloved King_ , I’d told her.

 

I hadn’t meant to say it, but it had been the truth all the same. I’d have stood between the little bird and Joffrey, though it would have been my life to do it. Once, the boy might have listened to me, but that time had long since flown away. _Very bold, you brave dog you,_ my brother’s voice hisses like a quenched blade, w _hen it was the Imp who called the King off his plan of stripping her. The_ mighty _hound, bested by a half-man_. The thought makes me snarl, but I can’t contest it. I’d been left to stand impotent while the little monster had her beaten, and even my belated intercession hadn’t been enough to spare her pain. All I’d been able to give her was the cold comfort of a Kingsguard cloak after the fact, for the good it had done her. 

 

Still, she seems to have forgiven me for it and I wonder what good I’ve done in my life to deserve her good regard. That it’s so infrequently offered these days makes it all the more precious, and if my nerves weren’t jangling from the crush and press of the crowd, I might have smiled at the thought. As it is, I want nothing more than to find her family’s honour guard and tuck her away safe from all these drunk men and sputtering fires. It reminds me entirely too much of King’s Landing, and _that_ thought makes my hand rest heavy on the hilt of my sword. 

 

 _When I am all that stands between you and your beloved King,_ and I hadn’t said which one _. Might be it’s her brother I’ll have to take her from, though where we’ll go from there is anyone’s guess._

 

The doors of the keep rise up ahead, and we’re close enough to hear the raucous music. “Do you know”, the girl chirps over the refrain of _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal_ , distracting me from my dark thoughts, “I’ve never heard this song all the way through? We were always sent to bed before”, she blushes for a moment, “well, before the beddings back home. It’s not meant for polite company, but I think Robb and Th—and my father’s ward snuck down to hear it once.” Her smile’s dimmed some at the memory, and she still can’t say the name. “Arya and I were under Septa Mordane’s supervision, so we never got to. She pauses and seems to summon up her nerve. “Might we pause for a moment?” Her gaze drops suddenly, and I wonder what the matter is now. _Her family’s in there, brother and mother, and she wants to listen to a song?_ And suddenly it’s clear, and I shake my head in amusement. Her mother—her _lady_ mother—is in there. “The princess wants one last gasp at living common?” My tone is slyly teasing, and she blushes pink as a spring rose but nods. “Just for a moment longer”, she murmurs. Hard to deny the girl much when she asks so sweet, and she’s got a point anyways. Once she goes back in those doors, she’s a King’s sister. Might be this is her last chance to be a girl. “Your uncle’s an old bachelor with a young bride”, I scoff at her. “Shouldn’t watch that bedding anyhow. Could be it turns you off marriage for life”. She grins up at me then, a quicksilver flash. “I hope she’s happy”, she says with sincerity. “I don’t think it will matter much, little bird; they’ve done their duty and now must live with it.” Her face falls. 

 

 _Damn it, dog, mind your teeth_. 

 

“But she’ll be Lady Paramount.” “Lucky Frey”, I say, and my tone is dry as dirt. She frowns softly at that and then whispers, voice small, _“_ _He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love. He wants you to love him…”,_ a wretched, sickening pause _, “and_ fear _him_ ”, she finishes softly, chewing the words like they’re a piece of gristle she can neither spit out nor swallow. “Do all men wish for their brides to fear them?”, she asks suddenly, blue eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Or was I just _lucky_?” Her voice is the closest to bitterness I’ve ever heard it. 

 

She _remembers_. The thought is quietly, darkly, thrilling. It hadn’t protected her then, but she’d given it enough thought to stick, and that’s almost better than any flattery. She’d heard me, even through the silliness she’d been born and bred to. _When I have a daughter, I’ll teach her to be more than lucky_. The thought comes unbidden, shocking as falling through river ice. I look around, startled; the voice had been so clear, near whispered in my ear. _There’ll be no daughters for you, dog. All this talk of bedding has got you thinking with your cock._ Still, my skin crawls like someone’s stepped on my grave.

 

Suddenly, the little bird freezes with the hunted sort of stillness that has me instantly wary, and my grip on my sword tightens instinctively. 

 

“Sandor”, she breathes out, horror thick in her voice. I go to speak and she shushes me with an anxious flutter of her hands. “ _Listen_ ”, she hisses, face gone pale as a wight’s. For a second, I don’t hear what I’m meant to be listening for. The whinny of horses, the clangour of a war host at leisure, the music from inside the shut doors—

 

The _shut_ doors. 

 

And then I hear the tune. I’ve spent my life in the Lannister guard. From the time I’d left home as a boy, I’d been living out of a barracks and a saddle-bag. I’ve been on campaigns, in brothels and uncountable taverns and wherever Lannister gold falls or Lannister men drink, the refrain remains the same. The little bird knows it too. It had been a particular favourite of Joffrey’s. 

 

_In a coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws._

 

A low howl to the left of us makes us both jump in the saddle, and I whip my head around for the wolf big enough to make that noise. _The boy’s wolf_ , I think distantly as the first screams split the air. The howl comes again, raised to a keening wail that has the little bird scrambling at me, scrambling _down_ me, hitting the ground in a sprint. _Fuck_ , I have a moment to think before I’m kicking the horse into a gallop, but it’s like trying to catch silk in a stream.

 

 _I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them,_ goes the refrain in my blood, a heady thrum that makes it sing. _If the fuckers touch her, I’ll_ kill _them all._

 

I give Stranger his head and suddenly the rhythm’s a dance; instead of chasing her, I shield her as she ducks and whirls, slipping under arms and around armour. The horse moves like a storm over the plains, trampling down any who’d come near her, and my blade is lightning where it slashes down. She’s wheezing, undoubtedly unused to the activity, but instead of heading for the doors she’s skirting along the sides, over to the kennel along the bailey wall. My blood goes to ice. 

 

 _The Starks use them for wet nurses_ , I’d laughed once, but the way the wolf snuffles at her hand through the wooden slats gives me pause. _He_ knows _her._ He’s near big as a small gelding, this direwolf of her brother’s, and suddenly I see why the even the Lord Lion considers the Young Wolf a threat. The Targaryen bitch’s got her fucking _dragons_ , and the King in the North has wolves near tall as the Wall at his command. “Get him out”, she pleads suddenly, voice desperate. “Please, please, he can’t be locked in here. _Please_!” Her nails break against the iron of the lock, and her panic makes my stomach clench. “Please. They made Father kill Lady, and she couldn’t fight. _Please_!”  

 

There’s a moment of sickening stillness as we both hear a woman’s wrecked scream from inside and the little bird goes bloodless, her hands flying to her mouth. “ _Mother_!”, she breathes out in horror.

 

Oh, _fuck_. 

 

I know what a death wail sounds like, and thanks to her _beloved_ , so does the little bird. _The King in the North, the Young Wolf_ , comes the chant through closed doors, and then, suddenly, sickeningly, Lord Frey’s froggy croak rings out. “The Young Wolf, is he? Then let him be crowned!” 

 

“The _hells_?”, I blurt in surprise, but panic has struck the little bird into action. She scratches at the wood, even as the wolf resumes its scrabbling from the other end. “The Young _Wolf_ ”, she whimpers in fear, and my bile rises. They wouldn’t. _They’ve massacred a King at a wedding, and you think they wouldn’t desecrate a corpse? Don’t be a fool_. “ _Fuck_ this”, I spit, and lift her out of the way as though she was made of down. One sharp kick shatters the wood frame. The wolf stands there for a second, filling the doorframe. 

The sight makes a primal shiver run down my spine. It’s pure fear; the sudden realization that I am not the biggest beast in the dark. I meet the yellow gaze for a second, hold it boldly. I’m hunched over the little bird, but I can still feel its cold eyes on mine. _Like it’s assessing you_ , comes the unbidden thought, and a shudder on the tail of it. 

 

And then there’s a roar of noise and the Keep doors burst open, three figures silhouetted in the doorway. They’re Northmen, bundled in furs and near tall as I am, but one catches sight of us and freezes in their tracks. Her eyes— _and good gods, it_ is _a woman, tall as any knight and in mail no less, will wonders never cease_ —land on me and narrow to blades. “Little bird, we need to _go._ We don’t have _time_ for this”, I say as the three try to make their way down the steps into the melee. My voice is rough with fear. “My mother, Sandor, they killed my _mother_ ”, she keens, clawing at her face, and I catch her hands firmly. “If we stay, we die with her”, I snarl, and her gaze is shock-bright blue when it meets mine. “I need you to _trust_ me”, I try again, lower, softer. “Sandor, my mother _,_ my brother, my _family_ ”, and her voice rises into a thin wail.

 

 _Gods be cunts,_ I realize with a sickening lurch in my gut, _if the Wolf is dead, then she’s his_ heir. “ _Sansa_ ”, I hiss in desperation, trying to keep from being overheard, and her name stops her tears in her tracks. That’s good enough for me and I swing her up to sit astride the saddle, just in time to see the wolf disappear from our side and into the maelstrom like smoke. He heads for the three Northmen in the doorway, savaging Freys as he goes. He circles around them, fighting off any of the weasels that come within range and slowly, the party moves into the courtyard. 

 

Sansa clings to me as we streak past, face hidden in the mail of my armour as I cut down any that would block our retreat. Her hair flaps like a bloody banner, but I shove it down under the hood of her cloak when the call comes up: _The King and Queen in the North!_   “Oh, please, _no,_ no more, _please_ ”, I hear her breathe, and I take a look and instantly cup my hand to the back of her head, pressing her face into my chest and away from the sight of her brother tied to a post and seated in the saddle, his arms wrapped around the Westerling girl. 

 

The Queen in the North is a fall and sway of dark brown hair in front of a heart-shaped face, and her dress is wet and red where the sword pierces her rounded belly.

 

The bird’s white as a ghost, pale eyes near colourless in her face, and she sits rigidly in the saddle. _Deathly still, same as she was after the riot_. That same stock-stunned quiet, too, and she can’t rip her eyes off of the grotesque remains of her family as the weasels parade them around like dolls with their strings cut. “ _Robb_ ”, she moans, and “ _Mother_ ”, she whimpers. 

My own stomach is in knots. _His heir, his heir_ , rings in my head, because here he is: The King in the North, Lord of a line dating back to the dawn of _fucking_ time, with his dead hands wrapped around his dead queen’s stomach, cradling his dead heir. _The King and his heir, gone_ , _and here you are, dog, left with the last of the wolves._ Gregor’s voice sounds like thunder, like the rumble of wildfire, like laughter.

 

“ _Enough_ ”, I growl, and give Stranger the reins. The wolf howls from behind us and we flee from the fires into the dark.

* * *

**Sansa**

 

Stranger flies through the night, spurred on by ruthless kicks, and Sansa clings to Sandor, face tucked against the cold steel of his chest. Her eyes are dry, face smooth as glass. A curious sense of detachment envelops her, a distance between herself and the awful, overwhelming thought that—

 

_No._

 

She will not, cannot, think of it now. 

 

Sansa swallows down the tears, takes the anguish and buries it deep with arctic chill. _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._ She clenches her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. _Be cold, Sansa, be ice._ Her body shudders sharply before she controls it, forcing the quaking down. Her head spins, blood rushing through her veins, but she does not cringe or cry any more. _Do not show weakness. You are not weak, you are a_ Stark _. The_ last _Stark,_ comes the sudden, shattering thought, and Sansa bites her lip so sharply it bleeds. 

 

Sandor’s nostrils flare but he does not say a word, and Sansa does not make a sound. 

 

They ride, and ride, until she is sagging limply in the saddle from exhaustion and Stranger is frothed and blown. Only once the horse can go no further does Sandor deign to stop, leading them off the road and into the trees. Sandor helps her to the ground, but she cannot feel his touch; the pain in her chest is so acute that it drowns out all other sensations. Sansa thinks she can feel it down to the marrow. She unrolls their pallets mechanically, even as he sees to the necessities of currying the horse and setting up camp. 

 

There is only the deathly quiet. 

 

Sansa sits with her knees to her chest once she’s finished, wrapped in her heavy cloak. Her eyes stare at the fire, unseeing and dull. She eats when he hands her a strip of venison jerky, and nibbles at it mechanically. _It is easier this time_ , a sudden, horrific giggle escaping before she can clap her hands over her mouth. _Now I know what to expect._ Sandor stares at her for a moment, expression revealing nothing of his thoughts, and then goes back to his own meal, silent as the grave. 

 

 _Father. Arya. Brandon. Rickon. Robb. Mother._ Mother _, oh, Gods be good, my mother._

 

The names repeat like a litany, over and over. There’s hardly a Stark left, just Jon and he’s thousands of miles away at the Wall. The thought leaves her curiously numb. _Half a continent away, and taken the Black besides; he can no more rescue me than I can fly_. She can trust no one; with all the gold of Casterly Rock at their disposal, and all the might of the King at their command, there’s nobody the Lannisters don’t own. _Sandor_ , her mind whispers softly, _they don’t own him_. She cuts her eyes to him as he settles beside her, honing his sword with steady, rhythmic strokes of the whetstone. 

 

The noise had made her nerves jangle at first, but now the sound means she’s still safe. 

 

 _No_ , Sansa realizes, though the thought brings her no joy. _They don’t own everyone._ They don’t own Sandor Clegane, not any longer, and they don’t own her. She might be the last Stark, but a Stark she remains. She will not allow them to take that from her; not now, when there is nothing else left for her. _Maybe she’s still alive_ , her traitorous mind whispers. _Maybe Mother is held hostage. Maybe, but no_ —Sansa knows what she heard. Her mother’s scream had been—

 

Her mind shies away from the recollection; it had been a sound of anguish, cut off suddenly. She’d heard enough screams cut off at court to know what it meant. _Even men with their tongues cut out screamed. Your mother is dead, girl. Life is not a song, and you are alone_. Sansa fights the urge to shudder. _Pretend you’re at court_ , she commands herself. _Pretend the courtiers are watching. Be stone. Be ice, be steel, be impervious and impenetrable. You are ice_. 

 

She does not sleep, only sits and watches Sandor wait for an attack that does not come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it; this universe's answer to the Red Wedding. Well, we can officially kiss canon a fond farewell.


	8. The North Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North Remembers, Sansa thinks, and I am the North.

**Sandor**

The North is dead and her family with it. The lions want her, and they’re not in the habit of being denied. Everyone else loves leverage, and she is a _biddable_ little thing. _You know you’re not the only one with eyes for the pretty little bird, dog. Even Joffrey wanted her—if only to break her, the little freak_. The thought of him anywhere near the girl makes my skin crawl, but it’s a possibility I needs consider. If we get caught, if I fail, he’ll have her back soon enough. _With her brother dead, she’s far too valuable to kill—but that doesn’t mean he won’t make her wish she wasn’t._ I’ve seen what the little bastard does to his women, and it’s no better than Gregor’s sort of sport.

 

It’s a small mercy that she’s reacting better this time. When Joffrey’d ordered her father killed, she’d spent weeks abed, barely eating, a soggy mass of broken little bird. That’s not a luxury we have now and to her credit, she knows it. We’ve barely touched dirt in this little copse near the Red Fork, and we’ve already stayed in one place too long.

 

_So now it’s the Freys and the Flayed Men and the Lions all after her, and Gods know who else besides. Might be those Northmen you saw want her for their purposes, too. There is a whole wide world out there, and everyone in it wants Sansa Stark._

 

To make matters worse, I’ve no where to take her; Clegane Keep is out of the question, and the Riverlands are a battleground patrolled by my brother. The thought of Gregor anywhere near the little bird— _No. He won’t touch her. I’ll kill him before I let him near her._ The remainder of the options are worse still; her mother’s people are under siege, and Riverrun isn’t a hard place to find. If— _when_ —it falls, it’s the last place the little bird will want to be. The Stormlands are Stannis’ and no refuge to us; he’s a hard man and like to use the little bird for his own purposes besides. King’s Landing is out of the question, and Dorne will never welcome a man with the name Clegane. Doran Martell might provide her shelter, but at a cost too steep for my tastes. 

 

“This is bad, little bird”, I tell her and she nods. 

 

She hasn’t spoken since the Twins, and the distant look in her eyes as she looks at me bodes ill. She might not be insensate with grief, but those blue eyes of hers are flat as glass. She’s taken to the habit of absentmindedly tracing the healing scar on her palm, thumb stroking along the ridged line bisecting lamb-soft skin over and over. Might be it soothes her, but there’s no telling. It’s been over a day and for all I couldn’t abide her chirping before, I’d give a great deal to hear her peeping now. It’s eerie otherwise; even in the Keep she’d been quiet but rarely silent. I don’t know how to fix this, to make her better, and my impotence makes me want to rage and shout. I don’t, though, because the little bird looks so skittish she’s like to fly off at the first loud noise. 

 

Instead I sit, forearms resting on my knees as I consider our options and try not to curse. I’m no Lord, no bloody ser; just a deserter with a fine horse and a fucked face, wanted from the Wall to the Smoking Sea. 

 

“This is bad”, I repeat, and those Myrish-glass eyes shift and fix on me. “We’ve nowhere to go, little bird. I’ve nowhere to take you, no kin to take us in.” Her expression barely shifts at the mention of the Mountain, and that’s how I know it’s bad. Even when she was nothing but a highborn’s spoiled get she’d hated Gregor, just on my behalf. _No true knight_ , she’d said to me, and the girl had loved her knights. Could be that had been the worst insult she knew, and she’d used it on him. _Even then, she’d been a fierce little thing, for all she’d been only a cub weaned from the den too soon_. _She’ll get better. She_ will _. She’s lived through worse._ “There’s nowhere I trust to treat you honourably, little bird. I’m sorry.”

 

Could be it’s the first time I’ve ever apologized. She stares at me for a moment, eyes wide. I’m near insulted at her obvious surprise until she speaks.

 

“Honour. _Honour_ ”, she whispers and her voice sparks with a bit more life than there had been before. “ _As High as Honour_.” 

 

“The Arryns”, I breathe uneasily, already dreading the thought. We’d gone north across the Riverlands and nearly been caught once by a Lannister patrol; to reach the Eyrie we’ll needs must trot across near every battleground in Westeros. _The little bird had best start praying to her Gods; we’re going to need every bit of help we can muster_. 

 

“My mother’s sister was born a Tully; she’ll know her words. She won’t turn away her kin”, she tells me, though I notice the waver of uncertainty in her voice even as she says it. I remember that the Vale did not answer the Young Wolf’s call and wonder how much help Jon Arryn’s wife will be willing to offer her dead sister’s daughter. _Family, Duty, Honour_ might be the words she was raised with, but the little bird would be best served remembering that honour comes last in the list and that milksop boy of Arryn’s is Lady Lysa’s only son. He’s no Robb Stark, that one, and will be no help to her. _Neither will the Lady Lysa, that mad cow._  

 

I open my mouth to say as much, and her eyes narrow at me. “I must believe she will help us. There no other safe haven.” 

 

My teeth click with the speed with which I snap my mouth shut; the little bird knows the score well as I do. I don’t need to tell her how precarious her situation is; she knows what’s at stake. _Silly girl, relying on musty words to save her. And yet, those highborn fuckers do like to hold to their creeds. Might be we don’t make it—but there’s naught to do but try. We can’t stay in this forest forever._

 

“All right, little bird, all right. The Eyrie. Might be the falcons recognize their own.” 

 

I try not to think about what falcons do to little birds that fly too close to their nests.

 

She nods shortly and settles back into her silence even as she breaks up the camp with efficiency. Stranger whickers, eager to get on the road, and the little bird nods her assent. I lift her into the saddle carefully, like I was cupping some fallen fledgling. Her eyes meet mine but her gaze goes clear through me; whatever spark had flared there before now smothered. Within a half hour we’re on our way, doing our best to leave no trace. _No sense in making it easier for our hunters._ Still, my stomach is queasy at the thought of the Eyrie; for all that it’s near impregnable, it’s also nigh unreachable. Even if we survive the Riverlands, we’ll have to pass the Bloody Gate, and that’s a thought I don’t relish.

 

It’s not an idle threat, that name, and with the little bird so hunted, the less people we see the better. With the both of us as distinctive as we are, it won’t be easy. I’ll needs must think of something quick as there’s no lack of little villages along the Green Fork, ravaged though they may be. 

* * *

**Sansa**

_The North Remembers_ , or so the story goes. _The North Remembers_. 

 

Sansa has known that from birth, has it ingrained into the fibre of her being. She is a Stark. She _is_ the North. 

 

 _The North Remembers_ , she thinks distantly, _but there is no North left_. She knows what she saw: the Stark banners burning, Stark men— _Northmen_ —slaughtered. She knows that her brother and her pregnant good-sister are dead. She knows that she heard her mother’s screams stop.

 

 _There is no North left, and yet I remember them all_. 

 

She thinks of all her father’s—her _brother’s_ —bannermen. The Mormonts, the Umbers, the Karstarks and all the rest. No doubt massacred with Robb, all for trusting a man everyone knew to be fickle. Maester Luwin had told her in her lessons that House Frey had elected to wait until the outcome of the Rebellion was nigh certain. Sansa also knew they were generally disliked and Lord Walder Frey especially so; she had heard as much. A man saddled with a name like that wasn’t like to forgive faithlessness easily. 

 

 _Oh, Robb, how could you_ , she catches herself thinking and damns herself for it. He had tried to be honourable in an honourless age and been murdered for it—but if he had not been so foolish, his honour would not have been necessary. But how can she hate him for being true? 

 

 _There are no true knights, no more than there are gods,_ she thinks acerbically _. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different._

 

Sandor had told her that once, and now she knows he might have been right. Robb was honest and true, and he died for it. _He was supposed to protect Arya and I, protect mother, protect the North_. But he’d abandoned her in King’s Landing to Joffrey’s magnanimity. He’d let Arya disappear, and he’d let someone kill their lady mother. For a blistering second, she hates Robb.

 

Her stomach churns. Her treasonous hands shake; she clasps them to hide it. _He’s dead, Sansa. He’s dead, and you can’t, you_ mustn’t _, be angry at him. Robb did what was right, s_ he chides herself thoroughly. _If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can_ , her traitorous mind replies, and she trembles with shame. Sandor tugs her closer as she quakes, her cloaked head tucked under his bearded chin. She’s enveloped by the bulk of him, all mail and boiled leather. His arms wrap around her, corded thick with muscle, dwarfing her in their grasp. _He’ll protect me_ , she knows and for the first time in what feels like eternity, Sansa lets her eyes fall closed. 

 

 

 

_White branches rise above her, high into the sky. The snow below her is carpeted red in fallen leaves, stained darker still with blood and the weirwood sap dripping from hacked-out eyes. Cold winter wind whistles through the branches, a high and eerie song that makes the hair on the nape of her neck rise. There are no words to it that she can understand, only a high-pitched keening that seems to draw her up and out of herself. She is looking downwards at the slim figure of a young woman curled in the hollow of weirwood roots. Hair red as pomegranate juice tangles around her face and her eyes are wide and unseeing, fogged a ghastly white. Her outstretched hand is sliced open, blood seeping into the dirt at the base of the tree._

 

_Sansa feels pity for the poor, wounded creature even as her vision goes higher still, above the clouds. Here, there is wolf-song on the wind and the sound of something much older still, seductive and beautiful and terrible._

 

 _Wordlessly it summons her and then she is flying, the sky above her iridescent as a soap bubble. Far below her, there is a sea of strange whiteness that sways in the wind. For a moment, it heaves and ripples like waves and she feels herself give a mighty stroke of her wings, leaving it flattened below her. She soars higher, unfettered. Up here, there is heat, and the same curious iridescence, and the thrill of a world laid open for her tasting. She can go anywhere. She can see everything_. This is what it is to be free, _she thinks suddenly_. No masters. No chains. Only this. Only the wind, only the sky, only—

 

_Only the cold as it reaches up to suck the heat from her very marrow. No shivering will bring it back and try as she might, she cannot escape it. The world is covered in blue, in the wicked frost of the dead of winter. There is no warmth in the world, and she wonders if there ever will be again. Below her, everything is empty: the little settlements she flies over, the small holdfasts tucked tight against ice-covered mountains and long-frozen streams, the deserted forests filled with snow—all of it, dead._

 

_The Wall looms up to meet her, a hateful gate keeping her out. She would like to shatter it, crack it like so much rotten ice until it is only a pile of icy rubble, fit for nothing._

 

 _She will rush it, break it, will watch it crumble before her and then she will stream over it like an inexorable tide, devouring everything in her path until only the cold remains, until there is only ice_. I am the North, _she thinks and her voice sounds alien in her ears_. I am ice, _the whisper returns, menacing as a riptide_. At the end, there is only ice. 

_She is pulled in by the whisper, helpless to resist the temptation. Ice is cold, is calm, is impervious. If she were ice, there would be nothing that could hurt her. There would be nothing that could touch her. She could be strong, and fearless._

 

I want to be fearless, _she thinks, and the sky darkens, blackening in the corners of her vision._ I want to be feared. _The darkness grows, until the only bit of light she can see is an oily sheen of iridescence in the very centre of her gaze. The cold tightens around her, leaving a curious detachment in its wake. There is no fear, no rage, no traitorous thoughts of dead men who should have known better, only the deep, deathly cold._

 

 _It frightens her, this alien cold. It feels wrong, inhuman, and it wants her._ I want to be loved _, she thinks desperately,_ not feared. _She tries to scream, but no sound escapes. She tries to wake herself, tries desperately to draw back, to claw to the surface—and all to no avail. She can not resist the lure of of the snow-storm quiet._

 

_Sansa feels herself begin to let go, disappear into the quenching cold—_

 

 

—and wakes flopping back and forth in the saddle, gasping for breath as though she’d been drowning. Above her, Sandor Clegane stares down at her with something approaching fear in his hooded gaze before it shifts to his usual implacability. “Little bird”, he rasps, “Little bird, you need to wake up.” She shivers piteously. She is cold, so very cold, that her bones ache with it. She can’t seem to stop shaking, and she notices he’s wrapped his cloak around them both and tied it as best he could. Even the warmth of his bulk is not enough to quell her shudders, though she curls closer and finds it helps a little.

 

The wolves howl suddenly, high and keening, the noise making the hairs on her neck rise and goosebumps break on her skin. There’s familiarity there, a chorus that reminds her of home. She thinks suddenly of Nymeria disappearing into smoke, like Arya, and feels a fresh wash of grief. She and Arya had never seen eye to eye, but she’d never truly wanted her gone. And yet she is, and the sound of wolves is the only thing she has to remind her of her little sister. 

 

“They’ve been following us for a half hour”, Sandor mutters to her under his breath. “Might be they scent fear; you were shaking like an autumn leaf for near that long. Didn’t come too close, though”, he says with some puzzlement, and Sansa simply nods wordlessly. The dream has made her uneasy, but the company of her wolves still soothe her restless nerves. 

* * *

 

 **Sandor**  

_There’s something strange about the little bird._

 

I’ve thought as much since I saw her leading a direwolf around on a leash as though it were a court lady’s lapdog. Weren’t many chits could control a beast from beyond the Wall, and here she was, perfectly at home with it. The damn thing ate from her hand at the high table, even. The little bird had been fearless around her and the direwolf had been protective as any sworn shield. Both had been; the little wolf-bitch had her own beast as well, and to hear the little lady wolf tell it, the creature had attacked Joffrey for attacking her. That one had been run off— _in the Riverlands_ , a quiet little voice reminds me suddenly—and the little Lady Stark’s wolf had lost her head for it. 

 

_Seems most everyone that comes near the little bird ends up dead one way or another._

 

That’s not a reassuring thought, given the circumstances, but it’s far too late now to change course. I curse myself for a fool, even as she begins to shudder in her sleep. She’d nodded off somewhere along the Green Fork, undoubtedly exhausted. _She hasn’t cried, has barely spoken a word since she saw her King brother dead_. That troubles me. I know what it’s like to eat your rage and let it sit like a stone in your guts. For all that she’s a proper little lady, she’s only human, and her whole family’s been slaughtered. And she watched it all. _If she’s not angry, she’s the Maiden herself made flesh, and a fool besides_. 

 

She hadn’t slept since, either, so I’d wrapped her in my cloak and let her be. Shortly after, she’d started to shift in her sleep. It’d been difficult at first, what with the press of her against me, but the shaking that had followed had chilled my blood easily enough. 

 

Then the wolves had set up their call and it had gone entirely to ice; high and shrill, a pack hundreds strong. A monstrous pack, roaming the Riverlands, and it’s the little bird and I on the back of a horse—an easy enough meal for a lone wolf, let alone a congregation of the fuckers. In front of me, the little bird shudders like it’s the dead of winter, and I decide it’s better not to wake her unless needs must. There’s no sense in both of us being panicked, and for all she’s getting better at keeping her head in a crisis, the thought of her slipping off the horse like a length of silk during our flight from the wedding is still fresh in my mind. 

 

I’d caught her being foolish enough in the Red Keep, too—first trying to take Joffrey for a flight, then challenging him at the tourney, and then a late-night tumble down the Serpentine. There’d been her little fit on the parapet, too, where she’d nearly gone over again and then her stunt at the Twins…

 

 _Little bird might be best kept in a cage_ , I think, but the thought of her locked away is distasteful. _In any case, being tucked away did Elia of Dorne no favours; at least out here, the little bird can fly away if needs must_. 

 

I hope it won’t be necessary. _Let’s hope these wolves recognize their kin, if nothing else. Might be the little bird’ll be meeting hers soon enough._

 

The low howl echoes through the woods like something primordial. _This is the reason the First Men invented fire_ , comes the sharp thought. This is a beast out of the darkness of the winter’s night, out of the tales told to keep children from roaming after dark. _This is something from over the Wall and it does not fear men_. It is closer than any of the other howls before. All around us, gold eyes light in the forest, glowing like fireflies before winking out just as quick. They move silently now, but for that steady, low howl, and Stranger shudders. 

 

Time to wake the little bird. 

 

I shake her and she wakes with a sudden gasp, near making me leap from my skin. I school my features quickly, but I think she’s seen me nevertheless. _Look at me_ , I’d barked at her, and now she won’t stop. _Feels like peeling a sunburn, all itch and relief._ “They’ve been following us for a half hour”, I tell her quiet as I’m able. “Might be they scent fear; you were shaking like an autumn leaf for near that long.” 

 

I wonder what she’d been dreaming of and then think of all she’s seen in her short little summer—might be it’s better not to ask. Girl’s got enough hurt without me dredging it up. 

 

“Didn’t come too close, though”, I tell her, which is true enough. Not close enough to hurt us, which is really all that matters these days. Closer than I’d like for comfort, though, and now that I’m not holding her up my hand strays to the hilt of my sword. Still, the girl doesn’t seem half so discomfited by the howls as I’d thought she’d be. She’s still shivering, but she’d been doing that since before she was awake and, if anything, seems to have settled down some since I woke her. She’s tucked her face into my chest, eyes averted from the darkness, and I sigh with fatigue. We can’t stop, no matter how tired I am. Not here, with the wolves. We have to put distance between us and the Twins; if we’re lucky, they’ll expect us to go North to what remains of her people and won’t send a party down the Fork looking. Still, we’re in the Riverlands, and I can’t think of anywhere—short of a burning King’s Landing—that I’d rather be less. 

 

Still, I’ve done worse with less; we’re only a hard day’s ride from Darry. We’ll make it, provision as best we’re able for the climb and from there make for the Bloody Gate. I don’t like the idea, but it’s the only one we’ve got and it’ll have to do. _Might be I’ll have to get the little bird a heavier cloak, though; she’s slight as a sparrow and her shivering bodes ill_. The path to the Eyrie is notorious for its cutting cold winds. _Family, Duty, Honour_ might be the words she’s gambling on now, but _Winter Is Coming_ are hers, and I’m not like to let the girl freeze on my watch. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone! I'm travelling abroad and finding time to sit down and write is proving a bit challenging. 
> 
> That said, here's another chapter and the next is on the way, so we're chugging along. 
> 
> Enjoy :)


	9. The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hounded by lions, weasels and wolves through the riverlands, riding on frayed nerves and a skittish adrenaline, Sandor and Sansa plot their next moves.

**Sansa**

 

The wolves sing in the woods for hours, the sort of song that soothes her ragged nerves better than any lullaby ever could, even as it makes her companion twitch and shift in the saddle. Sansa understands his fear; she wonders if perhaps she is half-mad not to fear the wolves herself. She knows the pack could kill them, but some instinct tells her they won’t. _Wolves don’t attack for the joy of it; it’s not their nature. Only men kill for sport_ , she thinks bitterly, and the memory of burning banners makes her eyes water. _In any case, if they’d wanted to kill us, they’d have done it by now. Cats might play with their food, but wolves don’t_. Nevertheless, Sandor is strung tense as a bow and Stranger is beside himself, prancing and tugging at the reins. _They won’t hurt us_ , she thinks, and wishes she could say it aloud to calm them all. She can’t.

 

Sansa is petrified that if she opens her mouth her traitor tongue will spill all of her secrets, reveal her for the craven and the hypocrite she is. She’s afraid that if she opens her mouth, she’ll scream and cry and never stop, so instead she ensures she simply never starts. 

 

 _You mustn’t hate him_ , she tells herself over and over, as though it’ll change a thing. _What’s done is done._ _Robb had no choice._  

 

 _He had every choice_ , the wolf in her retorts, all tooth and claw and dark, deep rage. _He could have kept to his own bed, or found a common woman. It was good enough for_ Father _,_ she thinks viciously and is instantly horrified at the resentment that swells up so suddenly she tastes copper. Only belatedly does she realize she’s bitten her lip hard enough to bleed. She’s aghast at the ugliness of which she’s capable. _You are being unkind_ , she tells herself firmly. _And you’ve made some questionable choices yourself, little miss_. Not least of which is running away with a known killer. _I had no choice_ , she thinks, and damns herself for a liar. 

 

She had every choice, same as Robb. 

 

“Little bird”, Sandor chuffs in her ear and she exhales slowly, waves her fingers near her temple. Her fingers ruffle a strand of hair that’s slipped free of the braid. She thanks the Gods he knows enough not to pry. _Then again_ , a vicious little voice returns, plummy and unctuous like Cersei’s, _he has demons enough of his own. Why would he care about yours?_ She wonders why he would, wonders why he’s doing this at all. 

 

 _If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can_ , he’d sneered at her once. And yet here she is, riding his courser through the Riverlands towards an uncertain welcome. Haunted by strange dreams, hunted by every Great House in the Seven Kingdoms and guarded by her enemy’s most fearsome soldier, she is entirely reliant upon the kindness of strangers. Despite it all, against his own advice, he protects her. She could laugh, if she didn’t want so badly to weep. _I must be strong_ , she tells herself sternly, little hands balling into stubborn fists. _Like my lady mother. Like_ Robb _. I must be brave like Robb._

 

The flare of anger still spikes upwards like caught kindling, and she shudders. The cloak is wrapped more tightly around her and she curls closer to Sandor, tucking her head against his broad chest. It’s terribly familiar, she knows, but there’s nobody left alive to chide her about it. _I am free_ , she thinks with a swooping terror. In the Red Keep she had dreamed of freedom, but this is everything she’s never wanted; Sansa has ever been a lady, as early as she can remember. Once, she had dreamed of being Queen. Now she’s fleeing through the woods, ragged as a Wildling. No kingdom, no allies, no friends. _No family_. She doesn’t want to be free, she knows with a bone-deep certainty, not if it means being alone. She sways at the magnitude of the thought.

 

His hand comes down to rest heavily on the small of her back, holding her safe in the saddle. It’s such a little gesture, but she soaks up the comfort greedily. 

 

 _I am not alone_ , she reminds herself. _A dog and a wolf can make a pack, and perhaps Jon and Arya are still alive._

 

It’s a faint hope, but it’s hope never the less and it’s all that she has to keep her going.

 

“We’re near Darry”, he tells her a few hours later, after the sun has risen in the sky. “Near the high road.” The woods of the Riverlands have been razed and the fields salted; there’s no cover here. They’d taken to the Kingsroad, trading camouflage for speed. _It’s near midday. We must have made good time_ , she thinks through the fog of exhaustion and saddle-soreness. She feels worse for Sandor, who hasn’t even had the opportunity to rest since they left the last inn. The bags below his good eye are near black as a bruise, and the pallor of his skin make his scars especially ghastly. _All to protect me_. She resolves to do something nice for him in thanks. She has so little to give, but perhaps she’ll feel more herself if she shares it. 

 

She nods to show she’s heard him, and he takes it as permission to continue. “We’ll stop at the Inn”, he says in the low tone he uses when he wants to be gentle but doesn’t want it to show. “You’ll know it. The one at the Crossroads.” She does remember it, and hates it. Joffrey had been monstrous, Arya had thrown his sword in the lake and Nymeria had bloodied him a little. She hadn’t known what to say when asked; if she told the truth Joffrey would despise her, and if she lied, Arya would never speak to her again. She had claimed ignorance. Father had killed Lady and Sandor had killed the butcher’s boy. In the end, Arya had resented her and Joffrey had despised her anyways. He had made her bleed for it. 

 

She thinks of all that had come after: Father, Arya disappearing, Robb, Mother, the boys. _Oh, Gods be good, I should have told the truth_.  Her stomach churns. _I wish I had never come here_ , she thinks and wonders if Sandor feels the same way. 

 

She wishes she had seen Joffrey for what he was so early. _Or perhaps that would have been worse. I would have still been engaged to him._ The King had suggested it to her father, and Sansa is intimately aware that a King’s suggestions are nothing but courteously worded orders. Why else would her father go South to a city he hated? She thinks Robert would have _suggested_ she go through with the engagement. She wonders if Robert had ever loved anyone, or if he had only coveted her Aunt Lyanna because someone else had as well. She doubts he loved Cersei. 

 

 She _knows_ the Queen did not love him; she had said as much herself. Sansa finds it hard to fault her; from what she’d seen of Robert, there had been little enough to admire, let alone love. She hates Robert suddenly, too, hates his heavy hands and his breath sour with wine. She wonders how such a coarse, crass man could have spawned Joffrey, beautiful and terrible as any Westerlands lion. 

 

Gilded and cruel, with that Lannister beauty hiding the rot beneath it. _He hid it in plain sight, until he was King and nobody would dare contradict him_. She wonders how she’ll manage to hide in plain sight; her features are as distinctive as Joffrey’s, and this is the Riverlands. _Even Lord Baelish remarked on my resemblance to my lady mother. He knew her at my age, so it must be true_. It might be that the inn-keep will recognize them; after all, a royal cavalcade is easy to remember, and Sandor cuts a distinctive figure. She really isn’t sure how the two of them are meant to make it through unmolested, given the frankly obscene bounties that Joffrey must have put on their heads. She doubts Sandor has a plan, though he has taken care of them both thus far. _Then again, perhaps I should not be so quick to doubt his ability; he is nothing if not capable. Still, there’s the Inn, and then there’s the Bloody Gate. There’s the ruffians and the High Road,_ then _the climb to the Giant’s Lance._ Her head spins. Pulling herself out of her sombre thoughts, Sansa nods up at him, but her expression must betray her somehow. Her companion levels his grey gaze at her through hooded eyes.

 

“I have an idea”, he rasps down at her, “but you’re not going to like it.”

* * *

**Sandor**

 

The little bird does not like it. 

 

Might be I hadn’t told her the Inn had fallen on hard times; with a surplus of kings and a shortage of royal progressions, they’ve had to turn to more practical ways of attracting clientele. _Warm cunt and cold ale draw a crowd, even if it isn’t the sort of company she’s used to breaking bread with_. Still, I’d give my sack full of gold dragons to see the little bird’s face again; the first time she’d clapped eyes on the whores, she’d looked like she’d eaten a Dornish lemon, rind and all. The look she’d shot me had been so scandalized I’d near laughed in her face; I’d managed a scowl at the last second instead. 

 

It hadn’t fazed her in the slightest. 

 

_Might be you’re getting soft, dog._

 

She’d not spoken a word to me for all that she’d pulled that chilly dignity around herself like a cloak and made for the darkest corner she could find. _Like a partridge into the brush. Clever girl_ , I think with no small amount of approval, even as I go have a word about provisions with the inn-keep. A couple silver stags slid his way across the table ensures his discretion, or so he says. I’m not in any position to argue. We’ll need supplies if we’re to make for the Bloody Gate without being caught up in a patrol, and I need to sleep. I’m in no fit state to haul my sorry carcass up and down the damn Vale of Arryn, lest of all dragging a mute princess with a pack of wolves nigh hundred strong on our tails. 

 

I’ll need at least eight hours sleep and a bucket of wine big enough to bathe in before I have the strength to try that trick, and in the meantime, the little bird will simply have to get over herself. 

 

She’s got her eyes firmly to the floor as though the mere sight of some of the girls will corrupt her. _Wonder what that dusty old Septa of hers would have said about this_ , I think with a wry snort. _Something disapproving, no doubt._ Her spine’s straight as a mason’s rule, hands clasped primly in front of her and her cloak pulled up to hide that flame-coloured braid of hers. It’s gone a bit mousy with the mess of the road, dulling the auburn a bit more. _Like for the best. Stands out like a shiny new Dragon, that one_. There’s two plates set up in front of her, tankards full of wine, and I settle beside her, glaring at any man who comes close. 

 

We’d decided on names on the way to the crossroads; for all she’s decided on the silent treatment, I needs must call her something. Gods know she would never pass for a Silent Sister, so mute it is. _Alysanne_ , she’d whispered much later, soft as a cooing dove. _Call me Alysanne._  

 

I’d wondered about it for a while, chewing it over; I’d never heard it in a song or in a story of hers. _Might be a Northerner name she likes the sound of, dog_. Can’t help but think Sansa suits her better. But it’s a name, and I know better than most just how much those are worth. Still, it’s Alysanne Stone seated beside me with her pretty face drawn into a little frown. She stares down at my hands where they rest on the table, grime thick under the nails, and then flicks her gaze back to me. Her lips are pursed—so she’s displeased. Her brows are furrowed—so she’s thinking about saying something she might regret. 

 

_Out with it. Come on, girl, spit it out._

 

It’s not that I want the girl to chatter and chirp, but it’s been going on days that she hasn’t opened her mouth to say more than a word at a time. _Even then, she whispers it_. I can’t abide the cringing, slinking quiet she’s slipped in to. Reminds me too much of the Keep; both Clegane’s and the one in King’s Landing. _A woman’s first blood isn’t from between her legs_ , Elynor had told me once when I’d asked why she never argued with Gregor, _but from biting her tongue_. I’d been too young to understand then, but the years had shown how right she had been. _Queen or commons, they’re all muzzled_. I’ve had that unhappy quiet chase me my whole life, and it stings to see the little bird brought so low. _This one didn’t deserve it; she should be singing_.  

 

Then again, I’d heard the little bird sing once and it had damn near killed me; might be I should be more careful what I wish for. 

 

Still, I’d fight the world just to hear a song from her lips; at this point, any would do. _Florian and Jonquil_ , comes the little wish winging up from somewhere buried deep. I could laugh at myself. _Beautiful ladies don’t fall for ugly men, no matter how many giants they fight_ , hisses Gregor’s voice, ruthless as a brand. _But what if they did?_ , the little voice whispers, and for a second I think of the dreams of a stupid boy who’d only ever wanted to rescue the maiden fair. _Should have known better, puppy._

 

“They’re dirty”, the little bird murmurs suddenly, quiet as a Septa, and I jerk my head around to stare at her. I’m dog-tired, sleep crusted in my eyes. I blame that for how long it takes me to make sense of the little bird’s words. _Is she talking about the women?_  

 

But no, her eyes are fixed on my hands. Figures. _Castle-raised little chit_ , I think, but it’s almost fond. “So’re yours”, I retort, and cut my eyes at her own grubby fingers, cracked and broken nails clearly on display. She looks down and freezes, and then bursts into manic giggles. They’re unhinged, but it’s the loudest sound I’ve heard from her since she begged me to release her brother’s pet monster. A few of the other gutter-crawlers in the room shoot her curious looks, but a well-placed glare sends them scurrying back to their tankards and their tarts. 

 

Her giggles die down eventually, and I shove the plate her way. “While it’s hot, girl”, I chide her, and she nods. “Thank you”, she murmurs, but if I’d had a dream that her laughing fit would break the wall she’s built to hold her words back, I’m wrong. She’s silent as she eats, and I’m not a talker on the best of days. Could be worse; after all the time we’ve spent travelling together, there’s a companionable nature to the silence now. _Neither of us are like to fill it with empty words. Can’t say I mind it, truth be told_. There’s something soothing about the little bird’s quiet—but I wouldn’t have wanted it like this. 

 

We finish quickly enough, and we don’t linger. 

 

The room isn’t luxurious, but it’s clean and that’s more than good enough. The water in the tub’s hot too, so the little bird goes first. She looks stricken when I go to step foot outside the room, so I settle myself in the chair by the fire and try not to think about anything to do with maidens fair, or maids in a pool, or any of the stupid songs that suddenly seem to have taken up residence in my head. _Think cold thoughts_ , I snarl to myself. _Ice. Ice_ spiders _. The Wall._

 

None of it helps. 

 

When she steps out from behind the screen in her shift, coaxing her mess of hair into a lady-like braid, it’s all I can do not to unman myself like a squire. She’s always been beautiful, even in her sadness, but now she seems remote and cold as the wall. Perversely, it suits her; makes her look like a true Winter lady, face a mask of ice. I prefer her covered in grime and laughing, as she had on the road, before everything had gone to shit. _I’ve seen her laugh_ , I think suddenly. _I’ve_ made _her laugh. Can’t be there’s too many alive as can say that_. I wonder what the little bird was like before I met her, before the Court rode through the Gates of Winterfell and ruined her life.

 

Spoiled sweet with a head full of songs, I know. It had exasperated me at the time, and for good reason. 

 

Still, part of me mourns the loss even as I chide myself for a damn fool. _Gone soggy for a girl. Seven Hells, I really am as big a fool as Florian_. The thought follows me into the bath and out of it, where once again I see the little bird tucked into a ball the size of one of Tommen’s kittens, dead asleep on a boat of a bed. _Gods be good_ , I think, and grit my teeth. She’s curled on her side, knees drawn up and arms crossed over her chest, that pretty face of hers hidden in the pillow. 

 

She looks like a dream, like something wonderful and delicate and not for rough hands like mine to touch. 

 

 _Bugger this_ , I think, and settle in to place above the covers, facing the door. _It’s going to be a long night._

* * *

**Sansa**

 

Sansa wakes slowly. 

 

Sleep wraps around her like soft lambswool, and the gentle morning light washes through the curtains in a hazy glow. It must be early morning, and Sansa wonders if it’s worth the trouble of ignoring her bladder and going back to sleep. Sandor is wrapped around her like a blanket, muscled arm draped heavily around her waist. He’d turned in his sleep, gravitating to her as though she were a lodestone. 

 

He dwarfs her, a solid presence at her back. He smells of soap and sleepy man, a warm scent that suffuses the air. She breathes in deeply and feels something tense in her relax. _I am safe_ , Sansa thinks, and realizes that in this instant, this singular sleepy-sweet moment, it might even be true. Exhaling a little sigh, she takes a moment to enjoy the sensation. Nevertheless, all things must pass and eventually the need for the chamber pot outweighs the desire to stay wrapped in Sandor’s embrace. 

 

He’s so exhausted he doesn’t even stir when she slips out of his grasp. 

 

After she sees to her morning routine, she stands watching him for a moment longer. The sky has gone a brilliant blue behind the windowpanes, sharp sunlight casting the scars on his face into harsh relief. He still takes pains to cover them when he’s able to and seems to prefer to keep them hidden. Now, though, the hair is brushed back from his face and his expression is relaxed, and the scars are not so bad as all that. She wonders what he would say if she told him so. 

 

Sansa thinks he would call her a liar. He’d be wrong. 

 

She’d touched them briefly the night of the fire and remembers a strange smoothness to them. Now she wonders what they would feel like against her lips. Sudden as the thought rises, she quashes it. _Don’t go kissing men you’re not married to_ , she remembers him chiding her. She knows he desires her—she’s sheltered but she isn’t blind—and knows it’s a bad idea; he is a killer, and a man grown. Still, the thought persists. _I’ll kiss who I please, Sandor Clegane_ , the wolf in her growls. She feels a thrill at the thought of being the architect of her own destiny, even if the thought of  actually kissing anyone is still a little daunting. 

 

 _And who’s to say I_ want _to kiss anyone_ , she thinks mutinously, and tries to ignore the thought of his mouth against hers. It does’t work. She thinks he would kiss her hard and demanding. _He would be rough_ , she tells herself, but finds the thought isn’t as quelling as she had hoped. The memory of him pressed against her, pinning her to the bed, crushing her behind him as he hid her from the patrol, pressed hip to hip in the saddle, all combine to make her shift from foot to foot anxiously. She knows Sandor Clegane desires her. That doesn’t frighten her; it’s the thought of her wanting him back that’s terrifying. 

 

_Get a grip on yourself, Sansa, you silly little chit. You can’t afford to make Robb’s mistakes._

 

Suddenly, it feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving her heart fluttering and her chest heaving. She throws on her dress quickly and tiptoes down the stairs. She thinks she’ll go about fetching him breakfast; it’s the least she can do after all his efforts to keep her safe, and it will give her enough time to regain her composure. _He told you not to leave the room_ , a little voice whispers. Still, she doesn’t think anyone is looking for Alysanne Stone, especially not at this early hour. _I’ll be fast_ , she promises herself. _I’ll run in, grab something simple and go back upstairs. Nobody will be any the wiser_. 

 

By the time she’s made it downstairs the common-room has started to stir; there’s the low hum of conversation in the dining room and the clink and rattle of crockery in the kitchen. There’s a sleepy-looking woman at one of the tables nursing a tankard of weak ale, her hair a tangled mess of cheerful cherry-red curls. Sansa remembers her, although the last time she’d seen her there had been less clothing and a lot more smiles. Now she just looks tired and Sansa knows how that feels.

 

It reminds her of the way she’d been tired after Joffrey, cheeks aching from simpered smiles and tongue aching from biting back the words she wishes she could say. 

 

Sansa sits a few tables down, poking at her bowl of porridge. The hum of conversation has become a clatter of chatter as the inn’s other residents make their way down and she slips into silly daydreams as she waits for Sandor’s meal to be brought out, wondering where they’re going and why. The portly merchant is off to Saltpans to sell his wares, she decides quickly. There’s a barmaid with her hair in braids wiping down tables; Sansa thinks she’d once had dreams of seeing King’s Landing but had never made it south of the Vale. _No great loss_ , she thinks. _You’re safer here_. There’s a surly-faced man with dirty brown teeth staring at her from one of the tables; she thinks he might be a hedge knight and turns her face away. 

 

She finds herself face to face with a little weasel of a man, eyes too bright to mean her well, and startles like a spooked horse. He’s sat himself beside her, hemming her between the trestle table and the wall. 

 

“Good morning, pretty girl”, he says, voice unpleasantly nasal. He’s forgettable in a way that suggests premeditation; his head is shaved to hide the fact that he’s balding, his breath is sour with stale wine and sleep and his accent grates on her nerves. He has cold, assessing eyes and a weasel face. She doesn’t trust him and instinctively recoils. Still, she won’t forget her armour; summons it up from the depths of her being and nods a greeting. 

 

He takes her silence for assent, sidles himself closer to her. His hand drops to her thigh and she tenses tight as a wire. Sansa thinks she must be the stupidest little thing alive. 

 

 _Speak_ , the castle-raised lady chides herself. _Stay quiet_ , the wolf-voice whispers. Sansa trusts her wolf and does not talk; she knows that her own voice is a give-away, with her Northern accent and tutored diction. Better to let him have his grope than to reveal herself as a prize worth stealing. She wishes she had woken Sandor, at least to tell him where she had gone. She wishes she had a bit of his ferocity, so that it wouldn’t be necessary. The man slides his hand further up her thigh, a tight grip that she knows will leave fingerprint bruises. _Is this what being a lady means? Always being painted purple by someone elses’ hand?_ There’s a quiet horror there, the same helplessness she had felt during the riot, at the keep. She can’t fight him off, can’t protect herself from anything. She can only bite her tongue and let it happen. She hates it. 

 

Then there’s a flash of red as the tart settles herself into his lap, all fox-sly smiles and musky perfume. 

 

“Don’t waste your time on her”, the woman purrs in the man’s ear, and Sansa goes very, very still as the man’s hand grips her inner thigh hard. “My sister’s a mute, yus kin, and a prim little fuck besides.” Sansa’s eyes flash to hers so suddenly they strain; the woman meets her gaze and despite her crude words, for a second her eyes are kind, and knowing. She leans down, murmuring in the soldier’s ear. “Some big fella’s spoken for her, anyways; don’t think he like ‘em screamers. Me, though, I like greetin’ the sun with a good cock-crow. Makes hard mornings easier.” She pauses, slides her hand gracefully up his arm. He grins up at her, a lascivious glint of dirty teeth and bad intent. “Don’t you agree, ser?” 

 

She grins, shifts in her seat so her ample bosom rests at eye-level; he takes a good, long look and his gaze goes lustful. His hand on Sansa’s thigh goes lax. She stays where she is, a stupid, simpering smile pasted on her lips. Too afraid to move, too weak to fight; she’s a sorry excuse for a wolf. Still, the tart gives her a look and then flicks her eyes to the door. Sansa has only just begun to shift away when the morning chatter is broken by a menacing growl. 

 

“Get away from her”, he snarls, and Sansa goes limp in relief. She has her back to him but the voice is unmistakeable. _He will not let them hurt me, he will not let them touch me_. She knows that with a bone-deep certainty. _He promised_. The man turns, the red-headed woman still curled in his lap with vulpine grace, weighing him down. “Come for another round with my little sister?” she calls to him, and Sansa can see the flat flint of her river-blue eyes. He growls low in his throat, reaches down and wraps those big paws of his around her waist, lifting her bodily from the bench and putting her behind him as though she were nothing heavier than a saddlebag. She wonders for a moment just how strong Sandor Clegane really is, and has a moment’s thought of being pinned behind him. Of being pinned _under_ him. Her skin rises in goosebumps and she shivers. 

 

“Aye”, he rasps, and her mind stutters to a halt. “Slipped out before wishing me a good morning; didn’t give her leave to go, either.” It’s a rebuke, she knows. Sansa’s cheeks flush at being talked over like a piece of meat. It rankles, to be the subject of crude conversation, but she knows it’s for the best. It’s an ugly, awful world and words are wind. She knows Sandor won’t hurt her, will barely touch her, sleeps above the covers. _He would likely have an unsheathed sword between us when we slept if he didn’t think I’d roll over it and slice myself in my sleep._

 

Compared to the man whose fingerprints are pressed into her thighs, he’s practically the Dragonknight. 

 

“Oi”, she hears, and sees that the man has turned around and is regarding her companion with dawning recognition. “I know you! You’re the Hound!” 

 

Sansa's blood goes to ice. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience while I'm on the road. Hopefully I'll be able to pick up the posting schedule a bit now that I'm in one place for a bit. 
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy!


	10. I Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you, the man says, and the world narrows down to a pinprick. 
> 
> Fight. Kill. Die, maybe. 
> 
> With the little bird to protect, Sandor's options are limited indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the scene that's given me the most challenges in recent memory. 
> 
> You'll notice I've taken some liberties and combined the two canons, but be advised that this is a particularly dark chapter. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but on the plus side, the word count for this is frankly a little alarming, so I hope it was worth the wait!

**Sandor**

 

“I know you! You’re the Hound!”

 

I see red. 

 

One of my brother’s rats has had his filthy paws on the little bird, and she’s frozen with fear. After weeks running the length of the buggering country, and a year or more trapped in a cage with her, I know what it looks like. Those dainty hands of hers are clasped and her smile is sweet and cloying as honeyed wine. Anyone else would look at her and see polite interest. 

 

I see terror. 

 

“Here for another round with my little sister?”, the red-headed whore on his lap had asked me, giving me a flinty look. She’d met my eyes straight on without a single flinch, even as she’d fed me the lie we’re meant to sell. I respect that, though given her line of work she’s probably seen worse than my burns, especially if the Inn’s become a favoured haunt of my brother’s little kennel. She’s running interference so this can’t be her first time dealing with that sort of man. _Unlucky her_. The little bird could nearly pass for her sister, in truth; the hair’s close enough that the story is solid. 

 

I hope against hope that he believes it. He might be one of Gregor’s pet freaks, but they’re not stupid men. Still, none of them have met the little bird, not even Gregor, and that’s our single saving grace. To them, she’s not Sansa Stark, she’s just another tart in a tavern. It’s still far too close for comfort, and the thought of them anywhere near her is sickening.

 

  _Stupid dog,_ stupid _fucking dog. You brought the little bird into this, all but handed her to them. Should have left her under a bush in the woods like a partridge, come down to the inn yourself. Spent all that time avoiding Gregor, only to practically gift-wrap her for him._

 

The thought turns my blood to glacial ice; Gregor’s delighted in horror since he was a child. _He’d break her, just to spite me_. 

 

I know he’d enjoy her first, no spite needed. Gregor’s always liked destroying beautiful things. 

 

I think of his wives, plural, all dead, and bite my cheek ’til it bleeds. _I won’t let him anywhere near the little bird, not even if it costs my life._

 

I wonder how the little bird has managed to inspire loyalty like that from me in such a short time, then remember a gentle touch in the dark. _He was no true knight_ , she told me, offering kindness when all I’d given her was bile. _Fool dog, falling for the first hand that doesn’t hit you_. From the look of the red-headed woman and the way she shifts to reveal the outline of a dagger strapped to her thigh under her dirty dress, I’m not the only one pulled into the little bird’s flock. _She’s been out of my sight for less than an hour; how she’d even manage that?_ No sense in worrying about it now. I’d come down looking for the little bird in a rank panic. I had thought she’d run, or been taken. Seems I wasn’t far off. 

 

 _Stay in the rooms_ , I had said. _Stay out of sight. There are men here who would hurt you_ , I had told her, and she’d come down anyways. I hadn’t even meant Gregor’s lot, just the mundane depravity of men in wartime. She’d known the sort, far too intimately for my tastes, and I hadn’t thought her so eager for a second serving. _Silly, naive little bird_. There’s anger clawing at my guts, but I push it away for now. _Stay calm, dog. You fight angry, you wake up dead_. 

 

“Pour our new friend some ale”, my brother’s rat orders the woman and she shifts off his lap, grabbing two tankards and filling them to the brim. She’s being generous with the brew, I note, and wonder if she’s trying to get him drunk. Or maybe it’s me she’s trying to make sluggish. Might be she’s their creature, though gut instinct tells me she isn’t. _What woman would be?_ If she’s got half a brain and an eye to see out of, she’ll want nothing to do with them. If she was wise, she’d run far as she could. 

 

“Here you are, handsome”, she purrs as she puts the ales in front of us, and for a second I want to rankle until I realize it’s not me she’s chatting up. She settles herself around my brother’s man again, a leg draped heavily over his lap. He’s distracted by the spread of her skirt, and the soft weight of warm woman against his crotch. She shoots me a look over his shoulder, all no-nonsense, but the man’s started talking and there’s no stopping it. The more he drinks, the chattier he gets. “What brings you so far North?” 

 

Can’t stand talkers, especially ones that keep me tarrying and exposed with the little bird shuddering at my back. 

 

“I could ask the same of you”, I growl in an attempt to deter him. It doesn’t work. 

 

He gestures, avuncular now that he thinks I’m one of his kind. That’s worse than any insult, him thinking I could ever be anything like him or my monster of a brother. I swallow the gorge. _Don’t get angry, don’t get stupid. You can’t risk it, not with the little bird here_. “Keepin’ the King’s peace”, he says friendly enough, and I could scoff. There’s no escaping this, though—to leave too soon is to invite questions; questions I don’t need asked. The little bird is tense as an archer’s bow against me but there’s nothing for it. I pick her up easy as anything and drape her in my lap; she’s facing me, slight enough that her face presses into my neck. I hope it’s enough to hide her features; last thing I need is her recognized for a highborn. 

 

She blushes hot enough to feel against the skin of my throat but wisely keeps her mouth shut. No tart would ever have her Maester-trained diction, so it’s better that she’s quiet. Still, it’s forward enough that I shift my hips back a bit to avoid the embarrassment that’s sure to follow. 

 

_The mighty Hound, panting after the wolf-bitch like a dog in rut. Stupid puppy, do you think she’ll ever do more than tease you, feed you crumbs under the table? Do you really think she’ll let a dog like you sniff her skirts?_

 

Gregor’s voice hisses through my head for a split second, but it’s enough to keep me steady. Of course I want her; there’s not a man alive who wouldn’t. Gods help me, but I want it all. She’s gentle, a lady proper, and calming as warm milk besides. Little hands soft as silk, and I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t imagined them over my skin. The way she laughs when we’re alone, when she forgets herself and her propriety, head tilted back and that pale throat bared to me; the way she curls up when she’s asleep; the fire in her eyes when she told me what she would do if she was a wolf: 

 

 _Not so innocent as all that, then_ , I think with a dark thrill. _The girl’ll never be a fighter, but that don’t mean she won’t be dangerous_. 

 

Provided we survive this. 

 

The little bird is tucked up against me safe as she can be, with my hand fisted in her hair holding her face against my neck. Irrationally, I’m glad I washed last night; a man’s got his pride. “No need”, I growl at Gregor’s freak on a leash. Polliver, I think he goes by, and what a nasty piece of work he is. One of Gregor’s favourites, insofar as he has them. “War’s over.” “So I’ve heard. Stannis defeated at the Blackwater, Robb Stark killed at the Twins.” She stiffens at the name. “And where was I for all of it? At Harrenhal with your brother.” I give him a look. “Meaning no offence”, he adds quickly, too quickly, and I tip my head. He’s afraid of me, as well he should be. _Keep civil and you might yet get the both of you out of here alive._  

 

“None taken”, I hear myself reply. _There, that’s civil enough_. _I wouldn’t want to be anywhere with Gregor, either_. The little bird’s shoulders give a shake that might be fear, or could be laughter. Those manic giggles of hers could unnerve a Septon, and they make my hair stand clear on end. I hope she doesn’t start.

 

“He’s good, Ser is, the best at what he does”, and there’s no doubt of it. It’s why Rheagar knighted him, why the Lion Lord keeps him loosely leashed and beyond all but the King’s own justice—for all the good it did Dondarrion, no doubt dead in a ditch as a result. _No one could withstand him_ , the pretty bird had chirped once upon a time, and that had been true enough. 

 

“But torture, torture, torture”, he adds, and the little bird goes rigid against me. I tighten my hand, give her hair a little squeeze. It’s meant as comfort, and she leans into it desperately. I don’t want to hear this, don’t want her to have to hear it either. I know what my brother and his rats are capable of, and so does the girl. No need to drive the point home. _Not that we’ll get much choice in the matter_. Polliver prattles on, every word worse than the last. “Spend enough time putting the hammer to people, you start feeling like a carpenter makin’ chairs. Takes all the fun out of it, if you ask me.” I hadn’t. 

 

_Fucking talkers. Wonder how this one survives Gregor’s tempers, running his mouth like that._

 

It’s a cold thought, reminding me not to underestimate the man. Gregor once killed one of his own men for nothing more than snoring. Any talker that can survive my brother unscathed is a dangerous man in his own right, and I don’t like dangerous men. Least of all when they’re around the pretty bird. 

 

“And what’s life without a little fun?”, he chuckles nastily, eyes roaming over the little bird. “But I don’t need to tell you that, hey?” 

 

I could kill him for that alone. If I’m lucky, might be I’ll get to. 

 

The red-headed whore gives me a quick look from under her lashes, and for the first time I can see fear in her eyes. This man is dangerous, and this man is _interested_. She squirms slightly, strokes her hand over his chest to distract him. “Don’t you think I’m fun?”, she pouts, pushing her lower lip out petulantly and arching her back to draw attention to her low-cut bodice. I can see the pink of her nipples through the chemise and slide my eyes away. 

 

There’s a bee-stung beauty to her, the sort that could have made her a rich woman in King’s Landing. 

 

A whore, but a rich woman. 

 

Or a dead one. 

 

I take a slug of the ale to disguise the gesture, swallow hard. 

 

Polliver’s eyes slide back to hers and he slides a hand into her bodice, pinching at her. Her face stays steady but her eyes narrow in pain and anger for a second. The little bird tenses against me; she knows what it’s like to be pawed over like a piece of meat. “We’ll have fun of our own”, he laughs at the whore and she’s careful to giggle instead of whimper. “Tell you what”, he says, directing his focus back to me, “You should come with us. There’s plenty of villages between here and King’s Landing, lots of inns with gold, silver…”, he pauses, and his eyes trace over the little bird with an ugly, avaricious hunger, “…daughters. You could do well for yourself. We certainly have been.” 

 

 _There it is._ The talker’s tired of tiptoeing around the issue. _He’s here to bring the misbehaving dog to heel_. 

 

Which means he’s not alone. 

 

_Then they’ll all die disappointed._

 

“I’m not going to King’s Landing”, I tell him after a pause. There’s other men arrayed around the room; the surly, sallow-faced man with lank hair tucked in the corner with a sweet faced, brown haired tart on his lap is one of my brother’s for certain; poor girl, he has the look of a man who delights in depravity. The happy little hog counting his money is another; no knight, not a ser, but that’s hardly an impediment. The Mountain might be a knight, but he has no such requirement for his kennel; a taste for brutality is the only prerequisite. I have no doubt the fat man’s soft hands are just as cruel as any other. 

 

Three to one, then, with more tucked away further afield I’m sure, and me with the little bird to defend. 

 

_Fuck._

 

I’ve faced worse odds, but this is not a good situation. One is practice. Two a professional challenge, might be, but three; that’s a _fight_. It’s bad luck to have met him here; to have met him at all. Gregor’s men are vile and dread’s in my stomach now, gnawing like a dog on a bone. I push it down and soldier through. _I survived Gregor Clegane when he had no other amusements._ You _lot don’t scare me._  

 

“Think about it”, he cajoles. “We can do whatever we like, wherever we go.” He taps at the red leather of his breastplate, preening like a vulture cleaning its’ feathers. “These are the King’s colours. Nobody’s standing in his way now, which means no-one’s standing in ours.” 

 

The King. _Joffrey_. 

 

Joff, the boy I’d been handed in swaddling and told to guard. Queen Cersei’s golden son. Every inch a Lannister, and it’s a wonder to me that it took Jon Arryn so long to notice. Ned Stark figured it out too, no doubt, and paid for it with his life. _Even the little bird’s got more sense than her high lord father. Should have kept his fool mouth shut, then none of this might have happened_. Hadn’t thought the boy had that sort of sadism in him; thought he’d send the high lord to the Wall, make him take the black with his bastard son. I’d misjudged him, bad. 

 

I remember the first inklings of the lad’s cruelty. Pinching the little lady Myrcella til she shrieked and ran crying to her Septa, tormenting his brother. Hadn’t paid it much mind at the time; he was spoilt, but I didn’t think he was rotten. 

 

Then he’d drowned those kittens, and I’d looked at a child and seen Gregor staring back. 

 

They used to say the Targaryans flew too close to madness; that madness and greatness were faces on a coin the Gods tossed whenever a new one was born, and the world held its breath waiting. The Targaryens might have had the blood of the dragon, but it like wasn’t enough to stop the strangeness that comes from mating kin to kin. Any kennel master could have told them that, had they but bothered to ask. Lions never bothered to ask, either. The high lord Lion married his cousin, and then his golden twins…well. 

 

No surprise that the coin fell where it did with Joffrey. 

 

“ _Fuck_ the King.” 

 

And _that_ is an unmistakable twitter from the little bird. 

 

It echoes in the sudden silence. Even the tart’s stopped her stroking and cooing, face gone the colour of curdled milk. I take a deep swig of the drink, mostly to settle a stomach that’s gone like a snake-pit. I should regret what I’ve said, but I don’t. Not when I think about a mailed greave slicing open the pretty bird’s soft little lips, not when I remember the sound the flat of a blade makes striking skin the colour of sweet cream. Not when I can still picture the sight of her, kneeling, clutching the remains of her dress to herself, bared to the court. 

 

Joffrey’d stroked himself after, the little freak. 

 

 _Fuck the King_ , I think with a snarl, _and fuck Gregor’s rats, too._  

 

 _A dog doesn’t need courage to fight off rats_ , I’d told her after the bread riots, when she’d come to thank me with simpered pretty words. They’d had me thirty to one and none had dared stand in my way; this isn’t going to be a fight so easily won. Still, it’s a fight I’ll happily pick, if only out of spite. 

 

“When I heard that Joffrey’s dog had tucked tail and run from the Battle of the Blackwater, I didn’t believe it. But here you are.” 

 

_Here I am._

 

I didn’t even know I’d said it aloud until it was out, and I can feel Sansa’s delicate little fingers tangle in the fabric of my jerkin. She knows why I ran. It was only the fire I feared. She knows it wasn’t the fighting, or the soldiers. She knows I can protect her still. Or at least, I hope she does. I hold myself still, eyes fixed on the little rat and watching the shifting of the other men at the trestle tables out of the corner of my eyes. Still outnumbered, but at least there’s no new arrivals. 

 

I wonder if the tart knows what she’s gotten herself into the middle of; by the grim look on her face, I think she might. 

 

“And with such _pretty_ company, too.” 

 

And now there’s a tone in his voice I don’t care for, a sly insinuation that tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. Men like him, the sort that trade in information, they always do. 

 

“She’s all right”, I growl, trying to take the attention off the little bird. “Expect so”, he says, that tone still strong. “Red hair?” “Like mine”, the whore replies, “Had the same mother.” She bats her eyes winsomely at him, but he shoots her a look filled with such malevolence that she shrinks back an inch. Not too far, as he’s got his hand tangled tight in her hair, but as far as she can go. “Aye? And what’s her name, then?” 

 

I feel my heart skip a beat. 

 

The tart hesitates a second too long, just a breath, and now he knows for certain. 

 

Now it’s only a matter of _when_ , not _if_. 

 

And suddenly it’s all a blur, a dance I know the steps to, familiar as riding a horse, as easy as breathing. The man moves, just the slightest of shifts, and it’s enough to tip his hand. The table goes flying into his face, connecting with a hard crack. The wench, no fool, drops to the floor and scrabbles away from the fighting as quickly as she’s able. The little bird is gone as well, slipping from my lap. “Go!”, I bark at her. 

 

There should be fear, and might be there is, but I shove it ruthlessly down. No room for fear, no room for concern. There’s only the now. 

 

 _Fight. Kill._  

 

 _Dying, maybe_ , is no longer an option. _Not with the little bird. I won’t leave her alone, not here, not with them._  

 

 _I could keep you safe_ , I’d promised her the night the world burned to cinders and smoke. _No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them._

 

And I will, oh, I will. 

 

I bare my teeth at the man, and lunge. 

* * *

 

**Sansa**

 

“Go”, he barks, the roughest she’s heard him speak to her in a long time. 

 

She hits the ground running, thankful that she’d thought to wear her heaviest boot and lightest dress. She backs herself into a corner as the Hound advances on his enemies, on the hedge knight who comes barreling at him with naked steel in hand. Sansa’s heart stops in her throat. She has seen tourneys before, even battle, but this is nothing like that. This isn’t a civilized tourney, nor a battle where everyone kills everyone in the blackness and everything smells like blood, sweat, tears and vomit. 

 

This is an inn, one that until this morning was safe. 

 

She thinks of waking slowly in the sweet early morning sunlight, warm and content _. I felt safe here_ , she thinks, and swallows the bitterness. _Stupid girl, don’t you know there’s no such thing as safety any longer? There hasn’t been in a long time._  

 

And never has she felt it more, standing there in the corner exposed as the Hound hacks and parries, as graceful in battle as a dancer on a stage. She is a standing target for any of the men who know her. _And know me they do_ , she thinks. _We were not careful enough. Your silence did not save you_. She wonders if she’s going to die today.

 

 _Fight. Kill. Die, maybe_ , she recalls, and resolves that if she is to meet the Stranger this day, she will at least attempt to take one of them with her. It cannot be so hard. She thinks she could do it. 

 

 _I am a wolf_ , she thinks, resolute. _I can be brave_. 

 

She still jumps like a drenched cat when a hand grabs her ankle; when she tries to kick it away she realizes she’s staring down at the red-headed woman, a finger to her lips. No fool, Sansa drops to her hands and knees and scuttles behind the table where the girl has gestured her to go. Tucked with her back to the wood, she feels herself shake and clenches her hands into fists to stop it. “Your man’s outnumbered”, the girl tells her, peering through the slats of the table, dagger clutched tightly in her hand. She thinks about refuting the claim that Sandor is her anything, but knows it to be a lie. If he is anyones, he is wholly, unequivocally, hers.

 “It doesn’t matter”, Sansa hisses, struggling to reassure herself. “He’s the strongest man in the whole world.” “Might be, but he’s still outnumbered, and these are not men who fight fair.” The woman isn’t wrong, but something about her fatalism rankles Sansa to the bone. 

 

“He promised to kill any man who would hurt me”, she retorts primly, and the redheaded woman snorts softly under her breath, eyes narrowing as she watches the battle unfold. “Aye, and I’m sure he’ll do his level best.” Sansa thinks she might be being a little sarcastic, but her nerves are too rattled to care. When the girl hands her a jointing knife from off the floor, Sansa meets her gaze with some shock. The girl huffs out a breath. “If they get you, aim for his face, or your own throat. Better with the Mother than with them, yus ken?” She’s matter of fact in a way that makes Sansa’s bile rise; she wonders what this girl has seen to make her quite so cavalier in the face of death. Then again, the Riverlands are a battlefield and patrolled by Gregor Clegane’s creatures. She keeps the little blade in hand. The girl nods, well pleased, and then huffs out another breath when there’s a roar and a heavy thud; Sansa peeps through the slats and sees that the portly little penny-counter has made it to Sandor first and been smashed nearly through a table for his trouble. He’s a limp little lump on the ground, face a ruin and she bares her teeth in a vicious smile. 

 

“His best is pretty good”, the tart concedes, and Sansa feels a thrill rip through her. “Yes, it is”, she murmurs, earning her a bemused look from the girl. He will win, she knows. She has faith in him. He is the best swordsman in Westeros, the tallest and the strongest and the most ruthless. He would not have been Cersei’s guard, nor Joffrey’s, nor a Kingsguard, were he not. He can take three rats in a shabby inn. 

 

She knows she can. 

 

Nevertheless, she sends a prayer to the Old Gods to give him strength, and to the Warrior to make his strikes hard and his aim true. She wishes, suddenly, that she were more than a simple liability. She wishes she could help even the odds. 

 

“What’s your name?”, she says, and it feels strange to ask. _She’s a whore_ , Sansa thinks with a crinkle of her nose. _She’s likely got as many names as lovers._

 

“Ros”, the girl replies, never taking her eyes off the battle. “And if you’re a Stone, I’m a Stark.” 

 

 _Well_ , Sansa thinks with no small degree of shock. _That’s a problem for later. If there_ is _a later._

 

The Hound has engaged another man, the hedge knight with the sour expression and half-rotted teeth, sword unsheathed and murder in his eyes. He slashes and parries, blocks a strike and returns it with a brutal slash that nearly, nearly, slices the man’s back open.

 

 _If I were a wolf for true_ , she thinks suddenly, _I would fight_. She remembers the stories Lancel Lannister had told of Robb, of Grey Wind; that Grey Wind had been terrible and vicious in battle, savaging Lannister forces as if aware of strategy. Ser Lancel had accused Robb of being a warg, of controlling Grey Wind. She remembers Grey Wind’s steady gaze through the slats, yellow and wild and somehow still knowing, aware of her and no mere dog. Lady had been the same.

 

She wonders if the rumours are true. 

 

Sansa almost wishes they were, before remembering her sweet, lovely Lady is dead and it would do her no good. She would still be nothing but a helpless little bird, good only for chirping her courtesies, spreading her legs for some Lord and birthing his heirs. She has known for some time now that the apex of her thighs is simply another of the Gates of Winterfell and that she is likely to be sold for her claim. _Perhaps I should not have judged the who—Ros so harshly_ , she thinks with a twinge of guilt. _We’re both likely to be bought and sold._  

 

“Oh, _fuck_ ”, the girl breathes, and Sansa is torn from the horror of her thoughts and back to the horror of the now. The hedge knight slinks around Sandor, harrying him like a feral dog, and he is beginning to tire. She can see the exhaustion in his movements; though she does not think he does yet. She is particularly adept at reading him by now, and she can tell that he is sluggish, the ale and the lack of sleep combining to slow his blocks and render his sword arm heavy. 

 

“He will win”, she whispers back, and the girl gives her a look that could almost be pitying. “Best hope so, sweet thing, or we’ll wish we had joined him.” 

 

And then Sandor falls on to his back and Sansa’s world skids to a shuttering, terrified halt. 

 

The man kicks him, hard, and she knows the mail and plate will only do so much against a blow. He still has his sword and that’s good, but it’s not good enough. He scrambles to his feet eventually, knocking the man back, but she can tell he’s sore and flagging; he’s also livid, if the stab he aims at the man’s groin is anything to go by. 

 

“Ooh, that’s personal, that was”, the girl mutters, and Sansa can’t help but agree. She wonders what grievance Sandor had against this man, and then considers the man in question and thinks the list might start with the company he keeps and end with the way he cuts his nails. Certainly, he’s attacked him with extreme prejudice. 

 

Sansa wishes he had cleaved him in half. 

 

And then she sees something that makes the breath stop in her lungs. There, crawling along the floor, is the vile man Sandor had been speaking to. The one who had compared torturing people to _carpentry_. 

 

And there, in his belt, is Needle. 

 

She had never seen quite eye to eye with Arya and they had fought, as sisters were wont to do. Arya had been rougher, more likely to play with the boys than practice her letters, and if she had ever taken up singing or the high harp, Sansa had never known it. _Dancing_ , she had done, and _needlework_ as well. And there it is, her little sister’s littler needle, the one she’d tried so hard to hide, hanging from the belt of a man who likes breaking people. 

 

Her sister had disappeared without a trace, and now Sansa is struck with the horrific realization that someone else might have found her first—and that it might have been the Mountain. 

 

 _They didn’t recognize her_ , she thinks, gorge rising in her throat. _Surely not._ If they had, they would have sent for Tywin Lannister, the Mountain’s only master. She would have made a valuable hostage. _So was Princess Elia_ , Cersei’s voice hisses in her head, _and look how well that served her_. For all she knows, Arya was simply another chair to break down to component parts, another amusement for the likes of the Mountain’s men. 

 

Cold washes over her, red and terrible as blood on snow, and before she can stop herself she’s slipped from behind the table. She can feel the girl try to grab at her, but some instinct lets her evade her grasping hands. The man has his back to her as he crawls along the floor to where his blade rests a few feet away. There is a heavy clay pot near her feet; Sansa stoops down, grabs it with one hand and cracks it down with every bit of strength in her. 

 

The crockery shatters and he stills for a second, dazed by the unexpected attack. Just for a second, but it is enough. 

 

There is fury now, and hatred in every fibre of her being. 

 

 _These are Lannister colours_ , he had bragged, tapping the red of his leathers. _Lannister colours. Well_ , she thinks, coldness wrapped around her like a cloak, _if he likes them so much_. 

 

She remembers Joffrey’s little amusements, remembers his cruelty, remembers his mercy. 

 

 _I gave him the_ mercy _of a quick death_ , she hears as clearly as if he were standing behind her, wormy lips pressed to the shell of her ear. 

 

 _Wolves know no mercy_ , Sansa thinks, and slashes at his hamstrings with the little knife. _Let him feel my bite_. 

 

He screams, high and shrill, as the blade parts his flesh like butter. She had thought it would be more difficult; had expected resistance or a fight, but the other men are too busy with the Hound and so it is only the carpenter, and herself. 

 

She is wild, now, and some part of her, born of the deep forest and long Northern nights, exults in it. 

 

 _I am a wolf_ , she thinks, advancing on him. _I am the last Stark_ , she remembers, snarling, _and this sword is the only one left to me_. She knows Mikken’s stamp, knows castle-forged steel. She knows the size and weight of the blade make it too small for most men, even for this weasel, to use. She wonders if he kept it as a trophy. 

 

She wonders what he did to her little sister. The sun to her moon, her father’s long face and steady eyes staring out from an impish face. Just a _child_ , just a little girl, and this monster painted her in purple and red and kept her sword. 

 

She knows exactly what bad men do to little girls. 

 

Suddenly the rage goes from cold to glacial, from the fury of a winter wind to the ruthless cold of the deep freeze. She pulls her sister’s sword from its sheath at his belt while he squirms, dazed and in pain. He’s still trying to crawl away, to get to his sword. The wolf in her bares its fangs. She is outside of herself, looking down, detached, distant as the stars in midwinter as she slides the tip of the blade through his stomach. 

 

The movement brings her close to him and she ignores his stench to lean down. He is on all fours, and she behind him. Her hair brushes over his shoulder like blood and he scrabbles at it. She does not resist, lets him pull her closer, twisting the blade ruthlessly with every inch. He screams again, but she’s spent years now in Joffrey’s court; the sound of screaming no longer frightens her. 

 

If ever a man had earned it, it is this one. 

 

“My sister was the North”, she says, and hears the man gasp and shudder through the pain, “and you took this sword from her.” His eyes go wide, and she remembers the weirwood, remembers the way she had hacked at the bark. She does the same now, a sharp jerk downwards. This time, the scent of blood that rises in her nostrils does not come from her. She hears a wet splat, smells dung, knows she should be horrified, and is not. 

 

“I am the North”, Sansa snarls as he scrabbles at the blade through the viscera of his belly decorating the dirty floor, “I remember, and I am taking it  _back_.”

* * *

 

**Sandor**

 

_Seven Hells, but I’m tired._

 

It’s a combination of travelling hard and sleeping rough, caring for the little bird and keeping her safe. A few nights of half-decent sleep since we left the Red Keep, and now I’m facing off against the very worst my brother has to throw at me, with her life hanging in the balance. 

 

 _If I fall, if I die, they’ll take her._ If she’s fortunate, they’ll take her to the Mountain and he might recognize a valuable hostage and leave her be. 

 

_Don’t be a fool. Gregor’s never been that smart._

 

The thought is not reassuring; when I’d heard what had happened to Elia Martell and her whelps, I had known it for my brother’s handiwork, and the Lord Lion had not intervened. Might be that Sansa Stark is likewise as unfortunate. If they do keep her, they don’t need her happy, nor particularly whole. I won’t let that happen. 

 

 _You’re a dog_ , Gregor’s voice hisses like a brand in my ear. _Just a dog. Not a ser, not even the Lord of a crumbled old keep. Not a white cloak any longer, not anything. Just a dog, broken after one too many fights. You won’t keep her from me. You never could keep_ anyone _safe from me._

 

 _Fuck that,_ I snarl back in return, and use the anger that rises at his words to slash and hack my way through his men. It gives me joy to kill them; they’re craven and cruel and the world is better, _cleaner_ , for their absence. I catch one of them between the legs; this one had been one of Gregor’s personal friends, and any friend of my brother’s is someone who deserves every pain in the whole Seven Hells and more beside. I hack upwards, feel the meat and bone of him give. 

 

He falls and I can feel my lips twist in a smiling snarl. 

 

Then I hear the scream, and I would know it anywhere. 

 

I turn and the sight near makes my jaw drop; the little bird has managed to skew Polliver clean through the chest. His face has a look of horror on it, not unusual for a dying man; but it is the little bird whose scream I’ve heard. She’s reared back, that glorious hair of hers trapped in the fist of the fat little man. There’s a sneer on his lips and a ruthless calculation in his eyes. He’s a man who knows leverage when he spies it, and he has spied her. 

 

“Drop the sword, dog, or I’ll slice her throat clean through.” 

 

The blade resting just above that pale blue pulse is wicked sharp, glinting like murder in the lamplight. I know when a man is true to his word, and so drop my sword. I’ll no more risk the little bird’s life than I can fly. “All right, though what you want with a whore is beyond me.” It pains me to call her a whore, but the look on her face is as impassive as one of those damn white trees she loves so much. I doubt my words so much as ring in her ears, but if I can talk her free, we’ll both be lucky. 

 

“A whore, aye, and a pretty one. Red hair, too, no common colour.” 

 

“Is here”, I retort, and the man snuffles a little chuckle, ever more a swine. “The other girl? Aye, a redhead as well, true enough, but the colour’s all wrong. Did you hear, then?”, he says, changing the topic. _Another_ talker. Another dangerous man. “Winterfell’s daughter’s gone and flown away from King’s Landing. Not common knowledge, you understand, but the Mountain has his hunting orders, and we’ve our ways of getting information.” His tone is nasty, and his grip on the little bird’s hair is ruthlessly tight. She does not struggle, only hangs there limply, little jointing knife dropped at her feet. 

 

 _Bloody hell, is_ that _what she was fighting with?_

 

I’m both horrified and impressed; after seeing the wreck she’s made of Polliver, my blood’s run chill. From weirwood to men, the little wolf is showing her fangs. That probably shouldn’t comfort me, and yet. _If we get out of this alive, I’ll teach her to use a blade for true. I won’t leave her helpless again._

 

“The little bird flew away, did she? Well, bloody good for her. She shit on the Bastard’s head and flew off”, and there’s bluster there. It doesn’t help. 

 

“Aye, and a pretty bird, Ser said she was. Red of feather, like a cardinal in winter, and ripe as a summer peach.” 

 

“And courteous. A proper little lady”, I agree, as though we were talking about someone we’d both once known in passing. It rankles me to talk about the little bird like this to him, but I know he’s doing it for a reason. _Fight angry, wake up dead_ , I remind myself. _Don’t let him get in your head_. I don’t know this man’s skills, nor his trade, but I suspect he’s an information monger. Undoubtedly my brother finds him useful, and I can see why. Still, his hand slides possessively around the little bird’s throat, and her eyes flicker with fear for the first time. There’s blood on her hands, just the very tips of her fingers. 

 

I wish I could close the gap, but any movement on my part will leave her flayed open, and I won’t risk it. I’m weaponless, and he’s got a blade, small though it may be. I’m not sure how to get us out of this one. Then there’s the flurry of sudden movement from behind the man. 

 

The red-headed whore has flung herself from behind the table and slashed that wicked dagger of hers along the little hog’s bicep, down to the elbow. His arm falls, deadened, and I think she might have hit the tendon. The bird lunges forward before jerking back, caught by his hand in her hair. She screams, panicked and shrill, and even as I’m running forward it is the whore who comes to her rescue. The dagger flashes out again, hacking at the length of hair that binds my brother’s man to Sansa like a leash. 

 

The hair parts and the little bird is free. 

 

She flings herself towards Polliver with a single-minded determination that reminds me nothing so much of her focus on the tree; my skin rises in goosebumps at the memory. She had frightened me then, worse than even the wolves that had followed us. I had never prayed to her tree-gods, but then, in the dark of the woods with the tree crying bloody sap and her hand still bleeding onto the loam of the Riverlands dirt, I had wondered if they could, in fact, see. 

 

 _Strange creatures, these Starks_ , I think, and remember that a line eight thousand years in the throne must not be so soft as the Southerners would think. _And she is nothing if not a Stark_. 

 

The man is squealing, clutching his arm and waving his dagger at me left-handed. It’s the work of a moment to get him by the throat, gut him like the swine he is and let him drop. 

 

There is silence now, broken only by ragged breathing. The whore takes a steady breath, goes the colour of moulded bread, and retches on to the floor. She wipes her mouth with her filthy skirt and seems to pull herself together by force of will. “We’ve got to go”, she tells me, matter of fact. “We?”, I rasp at her. “Aye”, she snips back, meeting me full in the face. “ _We_. There’ll be more, there always are. The Mountain’s men, these are, and I’ve no wish to meet the rest of them with you and her here.” 

 

“She’s nobody. A whore.” 

 

The whore shoots me a look of such bald-faced disbelief that I feel myself cringe. Stupid dog. _Nobody would mistake the little bird for a whore, especially not a real one_. It must show on my face, because she nods curtly and cleans her dagger on the skirt. “Right. Well, best we’re off before the others come. They’ll know I helped, and I don’t feel like ending up one of their wee amusements. I can pull my weight and earn my keep”, and _that’s_ a lascivious look from under those sooty lashes. I’m so shocked I don’t even respond, just shake my head. “Ah”, she says, wry and amused. “So it’s like that.” 

 

“Nothing like anything”, I growl, trying to regain control of the situation. I’ve had whores before, but they’ve always kept their opinions safely tucked away. I know I’d not be handsome, even discounting the ruin that is my face, but there’s something to be said for a hard body after a night of flaccid paunches, and some had said as much. None had ever been so intelligent, though, and the thought of a smart whore is an intriguing one. Might be she’s heard near everything a man says in his cups—and my brother’s men are talkers. And she’s handy with a blade, I concede, and proper fearless. 

 

Might not be a bad idea to have an extra set of hands for the little bird, for all that I’m loathe to share her company. 

 

“Can you ride? It’s the girl and I on my courser, and he can’t carry more.” 

 

“Aye, I can ride”, she replies, lips curled in a wry smile. “Horses, too.” 

 

Cheeky thing, she is, and the sort who seems to catch a bit of battle-fever. _Might be she would have been suited for King’s Landing after all_. Still, we haven’t the time for this. “She’s a lady”, I growl, jerking my chin at the little bird, stock-still and staring down at the sword in her hands, “so mind you keep a civil tongue in your head”, I snap at her. “Or I’ll cut it out and send you to the silent sisters, spare them the trouble of it.” 

 

The girl grins and makes for the door, taking flagons of wine from the tables as we pass. As she passes the men she kneels, rifling through their pockets with her nose crinkled in disdain. She throws it all into one of their sacks; daggers, knives, rings, coin—anything she can find gets tossed into the bag. I’ve got to respect her practicality; she’s happy enough to rob the corpses. They won’t be needing it, and I doubt they paid for it themselves. She makes a point of spitting on Polliver as she passes, and I wonder how many times she’s been his particular favourite to inspire that degree of animosity. 

 

“Go find yourself a horse”, I tell her, and she nods, making a point to take a peep before striding out. _Clever girl_ , I can’t help but think, even as I cross to the little bird. “Little bird”, I murmur, and her gaze is still distant and lost. “Alysanne”, I try again, and she doesn’t even think to look up from the sword. “ _Sansa_ ”, I murmur, and finally she looks up, blue eyes wet with tears she refuses to let fall. “Needle”, she whispers brokenly, and holds out the blade to me, still stained red with gore. 

 

Castle-forged, finely-wrought. Fit for a high lord, but much too small for a man…

 

And then I think of the little wolf, barely more than a cub, and wild with it. Nothing at all like her pretty sister. 

 

 _Arya had a sword she named Needle_ , the little bird’s voice sounds in my head, and I feel a sickening drop in my stomach. One of my brother’s men had been carrying it, and the little bird had seen. One of my _brother’s_ men. I know what Gregor’s men do to women, and maidens, and my gorge rises. Too small a sword to use, so he’d kept it as a token. I think of the red-headed whore, spitting on his corpse, and wonder suddenly how old she is, how young she’d been when she’d started. 

 

_Arya had a sword she named Needle._

 

“I’m sorry, little bird”, I manage, and she takes a gulp of air and nods. I can see her swallow it all down, know from experience that it’s the only way to make it through the horror of it all. I kneel down, unbuckle the sword-belt and hilt from Polliver’s body. The blade gets cleaned on his jerkin, and then sheathed and handed back to her. “Come along, little bird”, I mutter, voice soft as I can make it, “for we’ve a ways to go yet.” 

 

I take the liberty of a hand at the small of her back to keep her moving, and she’s out into the sunlight before me. 

 

And then the world narrows down to a red coldness in my thigh, a terrible itch that I’m altogether too familiar with. 

 

There’s a blade there, sticking out of the meat of it, and a gash near six inches long down the flank, bleeding freely. Might be it nicked the vein. 

 

 _Fuck_ , I think, and look around for the man who did for me. Thought I’d killed them all, or most, and indeed I have. There’s a soft breath to one side, just the hint of an inhale in the silence of the inn and I react instinctively, roaring and whipping my fist out, catching the curve of someone’s skull. There’s a high squeal, a _woman’s_ squeal, and for a moment I think the red-headed whore has looped around and attacked me. _Might be she was on their side after all_ , I think, but no, it’s the brown-haired one laying flat. There’s blood on her forehead, on the table, and she isn’t moving. 

 

 _Ah, fuck. Missed that one_ , I think, before my leg gives a wobble and I go down to my knee with a crash. 

 

“Ros”, I hear the little bird crying, “Ros, _help_ me!” 

 

“What the fuck’s a Ros?”, I ask, and then the world goes black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few housekeeping notes: 
> 
> First, I brought Ros along for the ride--primarily because she fit, and also because I really didn't like the way she'd died in the show. So, here she is--still a working girl, but instead of working for Littlefinger in King's Landing, she'd stopped and set up shop at the Inn. 
> 
> Secondly, the dialogue is a bit of a mishmash; some of it is from the show and some from the novels. I've tried to make it as seamless as possible, and no, there are no fucking chickens. 
> 
> Lastly, I had some serious reservations with writing Sansa as I did; that said, I tend to prefer Sansa's book characterization and after a few re-reads of her chapters, she's actually surprisingly violent--or at least, wishes that she were. Trying to throw Joffrey off the parapet is a big one, certainly, but there's a few points in canon where she prays for someone's death or exults--that's the actual word used, exults--at the thought of Robb killing everyone who's hurt her.  
> Thus, her behaviour in this scene. 
> 
> Not to mention, she tried to kill Joffrey for giving her father a 'clean' death; I couldn't really see her reacting well to finding out Arya'd been caught by the Mountain.


	11. Florian and Jonquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please, he begs again. Mercy. She isn’t even sure he’s awake, let alone lucid. Mercy, mercy, he pleads brokenly through dry, cracked lips. 
> 
> Sansa knows all about mercy. 
> 
> I was merciful, she hears Joffrey say, his voice in her mind the texture of pond scum. 
> 
> Sansa does not believe in mercy any longer. She wonders if that makes her cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?  
> I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run  
> Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please  
> Don’t take that sinner from me  
> Oh don’t take that sinner from me
> 
> "The Devil's Backbone" --The Civil Wars

**Sansa**

 

“Ros, help me”, Sansa cries as Sandor collapses behind her, the ghastly wound in his thigh already staining his trousers a deep, deadly, _Lannister_ crimson. _They hurt everyone I’m near_ , she thinks, and feels sick to her stomach with guilt. 

 

She wants to wail, to _keen_. She wants, desperately, to be weak. 

One day, she will allow herself to be, but it will not be today. It must not be now. 

 

He has carried her through all the hells with steady, unceasing strength. She will not crumble like a snowball made of powder at the first sign of difficulty, not when he has been as strong as Northern granite. 

 

She is Sansa Stark, and she is made of sterner stuff than that.

 

The whore— _Ros_ , her mind supplies with a bite to it, remembering acutely the way being called _the traitor’s daughter_ had cut to the very quick of her—appears with alacrity, a docile gelding the colour of old hay trotting placidly after her. She doesn’t have to ask; one look at the brown-haired tart and her face goes sour. “Rabid little bitch”, she spits with something like loathing. “That one wasn’t ever right, not ever”, she adds in a burr so familiar Sansa feels a chill crawl over her skin. This is the first Northerner she’s met since her world narrowed down to a gilded cage, and it’s like someone’s walked on her grave. 

 

Ros sighs. “You’ll have to help me, Princess”, she adds briskly, and Sansa startles at being so addressed. 

 

Ros rolls her eyes and waves her hand at her, obviously exasperated at Sansa’s distractions. “ _Now_ , if you please”, she snips, “or your man _will_ die.” Duly chastened, Sansa shifts over and helps her bring Sandor to his back. She does not question the distinction; if Sandor Clegane is anyone’s man, he’s hers. _Words are wind_ , she thinks, _and yet, here he is_. The knife quivers and he groans; Sansa flinches as though she’s been struck. _Those men_ wanted _you, and he kept you safe_. “Oh, Mother have mercy”, she hears herself say breathlessly, as though from a distance. Blackness swallows her vision, and Sansa thinks she may swoon. “Pray if you have to”, Ros tells her, all business, “but do as I say, and don’t you dare faint.” She gives Sansa a once-over. “Or vomit”, she adds helpfully, even as she cuts a strip off of Sansa’s cloak with her dagger. “This will be unpleasant”, she warns her, and ties the length of fabric around Sandor’s thigh so tightly that he comes to with a feral, snarled scream. 

 

The sound is snared-fox awful, a primal, primitive noise of pain. 

 

Sansa sucks in a breath and chokes on it; his attention immediately fixes on her. She can see his jaw work as he grits his teeth against the pain and bites the screams back for her benefit; she rests her fingertips lightly on his arm. He seems to soothe, and his muscles relax slightly under his hand. Behind her, Ros hums a tune that Sansa suddenly recognizes as the chorus to Florian and Jonquil. Sandor looks at Ros with such bald incredulity on his face that Sansa chokes down an unhinged little giggle. 

 

 _A fool and his cunt_ , he had told her once, and yet here they are. She thinks that if the Gods exist, old or new alike, they must have a strange sense of humour. 

 

“Knife, was it”, he grinds out grimly, and it is not a question; Ros hums in agreement. “Haven’t touched it yet; didn’t want to make a mess.” She nods down at the strip of fabric tied above the wound, and Sandor takes a glance and breathes out slowly through his nose. “All right”, he says grimly, and Sansa reaches out again and applies the lightest pressure to his forearm. It is the chastest, briefest of touches, but the look he shoots her is unreadable. She meets his gaze unflinchingly. 

 

 _I am a wolf_ , she reminds herself firmly. _I can be brave._  

 

He averts his eyes suddenly, and Sansa wonders what he’s seen writ on her face. She wonders what he thinks of her, now that she’s killed a man. She wonders if he approves, if she’s proven that she can defend herself, or if she’s forever ruined herself in his estimation. _A proper lady_ , he’d called her, but how can she be? She’s got a man’s blood on her hands. She’d spoken to him, nearly gloated. For a stock-stunned moment, Sansa feels like Cersei Lannister and feels sick to her stomach. 

 

 _That man would have killed you_ , the wolf in her retorts, all bared fangs and fury. _He would have killed Sandor, hurt you and_ enjoyed _it, and sent you to the Mountain when he was done, the same as he did to Arya._

 

The thought of her little sister, alone and frightened and left to the mercy of men like Polliver and his monstrous master, is enough to burn away the last of the guilt. 

 

Now only the resolve remains: if Sandor Clegane is all she has left, then Sandor Clegane will not die. 

 

“My lady”, Ros calls, and Sansa slides her eyes back to Sandor. His face is pale, a sickly grey cast to it that she’s never seen before, not even on the night the Blackwater had burned green. His hands shake and he sucks in shallow, quick gasps. She shudders to think of the pain he must be in. Her stomach plummets. “I’ve had worse, little bird”, he rasps at her, and _oh_ , she knows he would not lie to her, _knows_ he has survived worse than a little knife-stick, but Ros’ face is so grim there can be no doubting he is in danger all the same. 

 

Ros tightens the strip of fabric again, and Sandor groans out a curse and sags, eyes closed and breathing even shakier than before. A hand to his proves he has once again fainted. “We need to leave”, Ros says quietly, and Sansa nods. She knows they can’t stay here, no matter how badly Sandor is wounded. _The worse he is_ , she thinks suddenly, _the further we must go. Otherwise, he will be easy prey for Gregor Clegane_. 

 

The thought of Sandor left helpless before the approach of the Mountain makes her spine straighten and freeze hard as ice. 

 

 _No_ , snarls the wolf she found in the woods. 

 

 _I will not allow it_ , the queen her lady mother raised thinks with a lift of her chin. 

 

“Immediately”, she agrees, and Ros inclines her head. “I’ve got a horse here, my lady, but that black beast of his near took my hand off at the wrist for trying to touch him just now. Will he mind you?” 

 

Sansa thinks of the high-strung courser, all nerves and battle-honed rage, so like his master, and shakes her head. “No. He’s loyal only to Sandor.” 

“Well, figure it out, Your Grace, because I’m needed here”, Ros tells her baldly, and Sansa blanches at being ordered about by a tart. “You’re _very_ bold”, she chides, and hates how prim her voice sounds. “I am”, Ros agrees, and fixes Sansa with a narrow-eyed glint. “And I know I’m speaking above my station, my lady. I’m a whore”, and she says the word strangely, almost defiantly, daring Sansa to pass judgement. “But my mother was known for a good-wife in the Wintertown. I learnt at her skirts for a while, and I’ve patched up my fair share of bar brawl and battle-bloody soldiers. Some men like their wounds to be made much of, yus ken?”, and no, Sansa does not _ken_ , but she knows when to be silent. Ros plows on relentlessly. “So unless your Maester taught you healing up in that castle of yours, or you know how to staunch bleeding with a song, you can get the bloody horse. _Your Grace_ ”, she adds with only a hint of vinegar in her tone, and Sansa turns on her heel and flees. 

 

Still, she’s nothing if not practical these days, and so flees in the direction of the stables. It’s easy to find Stranger; he’s bugling high and shrill and loud enough to wake the dead men not fifty feet away. Or if nothing else, she thinks, stomach full of dread, loud enough to call the attention of their even less savoury compatriots. Sansa’s heart trips over itself at the thought and, in her terror, the words escape her before she can think better of it. 

 

“ _Bugger_ your temper, you _wretched_ creature”, she barks at the horse, so far past her breaking point that she’s nearly panting. Her eyes are wild, hands clenched at her side. 

 

 _You cannot afford lapses like this_ , she scolds herself as soon as the words escape her. Courtesy is a lady’s armour, and she is being hunted through a battlefield. _I must be porcelain, and steel and ice, smooth and impenetrable as the Wall,_ she thinks, fingertips raised to her mouth as though they could keep the words from flying out, or shove them back in. “What is _wrong_ with me?”, she whispers into the quiet of the stables. 

 

And then there is nothing but quiet in the stables, all the noise of Stranger’s tantrum having ceased. When she raises her eyes, the horse is watching her, head hanging over the stall door. She presses her lips together for a moment to forestall a stream of invective. “Good boy”, she manages eventually, and takes a dainty step closer. He prances in his stall as she does, and Sansa freezes where she stands until he settles down again. Once he has, she inches slowly forward until she is nearly at the door. Stranger shoots her a wall-eyed look and tosses his head, but Sansa is far too frightened for Sandor to be scared of his horse. 

 

“Stranger, please”, she murmurs, careful to keep her voice low and calming. “Sandor is—is not well”, she finishes, and wonders why her eyes are watering. The stables must be pungent, she thinks, and brushes at them distractedly. She reaches out with her hand, the still-healing slice along the palm itching at the heat of the great beast before her. She prays to the Old Gods of the forest that the skittish horse will not attack. “Please”, she implores, and it could be of the horse, or the gods, or of her own will, “help me.” 

 

When the prickle of heat along her hand blooms into the warmth of a coat under her palm, she exhales the breath she had not known she’d been holding. 

 

Stranger shudders under her touch, neck taut and finely arched. “Oh”, she murmurs, and tangles her fingers in his mane. “Thank you”, she whispers, words curling like incense in the thick stable air. 

 

With the horse settled, it’s easy enough to gather the saddle and blanket, bridle and bit. Carrying it all presents more of a challenge, so she does the best she can with what she’s been given. The blanket and saddle go over the back of him, and though he shudders and paws at the ground he neither rears nor runs away. Sansa thinks they might have reached an accord, one she’s desperately thankful for. Nevertheless, she works quickly, eager to return to Sandor’s side.

 

The rest she hauls in her arms, leading Stranger by the soft halter out into the courtyard where Sandor lays flat on the dirt, leg elevated up on a bucket that Ros has managed to find. She notices the blade is still embedded in the meat of his leg. “I’m back”, she peeps, and Sandor grunts and lifts his head tiredly. He looks exhausted, and his pallor frightens her even worse than all the blood. “You got the horse?”

 

“We have come to an understanding”, she tells him and he barks out a dry, awful-sounding laugh. “Tamed him to hand”, he chuckles, though Sansa can’t see the humour of it. Behind her, the horse neighs and paws at the ground. “Well done, your Grace”, Ros says, only the slightest hint of amusement in her tone. She adjusts the rough wrapping she’s tied around Sandor’s leg to keep the blade steady, and earns herself a snarl from the man for her trouble. 

 

Where Sansa had once cringed, Ros only gives him a measured look. Sansa finds herself wondering if the woman is truly mad. 

 

“It will need saddling”, Ros announces, and Sandor groans. “I’ll do it”, he says, and Ros shoots him a withering glare. “Hells you will, and muck up that pretty wrapping of mine”, she snaps, sharp as a drenched fox. “The less time you spend upright the better. Let the girl do it; she’s tougher than she looks.” 

 

“Know _that_ well enough”, he mutters and Sansa feels her cheeks pink up with pride. Sandor’s complements are like lemons in winter; coveted and rare. “You’ll needs saddle him, my lady”, he concedes with a scowl. “I never have, before”, Sansa admits, feeling worse than useless. “I’ll guide you through it, my lady”, he grits out. Behind her, Ros coughs, although it sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. She wonders for a moment and then dismisses it. She’ll ask her later, when the situation is not quite so fraught. She notes that he’s using her proper title, and suspects the new company has reminded him of the differences in their station. 

 

As she sets about her new task, Sansa tries very hard not to resent the woman who just saved her life or question why his new formality disappoints her so.

* * *

 

**Ros**

 

 _She’s a whore_ , the scarred man had said, and I’d felt the strangest need to laugh, and cry, all at once. If he thinks that’s going to sell, it won’t, and he’s a fool to try. Still, it’s sweet to see a fool try and protect his lady, regardless of the means. 

 

And of course it hadn’t worked; anyone with eyes could tell the girl was probably highborn, and certainly not a whore. Not even born on the wrong side of the sheets, and it shows. She’d tried doing her best impression of a Stone, or at least being silent as one, but it hadn’t stuck and so now here we are. There’s a bloody big man bleeding on the front stoop of the Inn, a pack of freaks dead inside and a terrorized girl giving me cow eyes as though surprised a whore could sweep in and save her. 

 

Because she mightn’t be a whore, but I _am_. 

 

Her little nose had crinkled to make my acquaintance, but she hadn’t been rude nor cruel. I might be a fool as well, as I’ve a soft spot for sweet girls in bad situations. Some call it empathy, though I’ve been told that’s the kindest term for stupidity and I’m inclined to agree. In any case, I know my place, and I know hers. I know this girl, or at least, know _of_ her. They’d rung the bells for her, the day she’d been born. There’d been a summer snow and with it a rash of little colds and coughs, and I’d been following Mother through her route to learn the trade. Goody Smith, they’d called her, and she’d gone door to door with her remedies—for easing birthing, for cleaning wounds, for the cough and the grippe and all the little sniffles, offering up all the things that served to heal. The bells had pealed and pealed as we’d walked. The bells only rang for exceptional situations: a death, or a wedding or a birth. I’d tugged at Mother’s sleeve, asked her what the bells were for.

 

“A little lady”, Mother had told me with her quirked smile, “A little lady Stark”. I had wondered idly what it would be like to be that little girl, to grow up to live in a castle with servants to fetch for her, and sweet tarts to eat. That night, I had dreamed of being a grand lady, crowned with roses in my hair like the Lady Lyanna. I had conveniently forgotten the end of that tale. 

 

Looking at the girl now, I can’t say I’m jealous. Although, given where we’ve both ended up, I think the Gods might have a funny sense of humour. Certainly the Old Gods do, to give the Starks such blessings with the one hand and snatch them away with the other. Still, for all that she’s been brought low, she’s still that castle-raised little chit. That sort of thing gets imprinted in the bone, I think.

 

She’d started to snip at me and I shut her down in kind, thoughts of Mother still running too close to the surface. She hadn’t suffered fools, either. After we come to our understanding, we manage as best we can, even as her man groans and bleeds and looks fit to give up the ghost. 

 

“This is bad”, he tells me just as soon as she scampers towards the stables. He watched her go; I hadn’t even known he was awake. “Yes”, I tell him. No sense in lying. He’s a soldier, and undoubtedly knows as well as any that this isn’t the sort of knife-stick he’s going to simply walk off. “How bad?”, he asks, voice grim. “ _Bad_ ”, I tell him, and he huffs out a breath through gritted teeth and falls back onto the ground. He knows what that means. He’s weak, fading in and out of consciousness as the puddle of red expands around him, but when he’s awake he’s lucid. _Lucky him._

 

And while he’s not a talker, not like that disgusting Polliver, he’s got a few things to say. 

 

“You know her”, he says, and I nod. Astute man and observant, but then, anyone who fights like him would be. “Yes, milord”, and he scowls at that. “Not a ser, not a Lord, certainly not _your_ lord”, he growls, and I can’t help it. I laugh at him. “A lecture on social graces? Now?” He scowls but shuts up, and I thank the Gods for small mercies. A man like this prefers to be led, though he’d surely rather cut out his tongue than admit it. A life of following orders will do that to a man, for which I’m eternally grateful. Makes them all easier to manage. “But yes. I know of her.” “How?”, he grits out, trying to shift his bulk towards me, menace writ clear on that ugly mug of his. 

 

And it is ugly, scarred and charred and melted. It’s a wreckage, but at least it’s an honest one. In my line of work, you see all manner of ugliness, and few men are so courteous as to keep theirs externally visible. I’d rather an ugly man than a twisted one, and from the way the girl flits and flutters around him, this big man is very much the former and far from the latter. “Stand down, soldier, before you make a mess”, I warn him, and flicker my eyes to his thigh. He settles with a hissed breath, skin the colour of soiled linens, and I continue. “Born and raised in the Wintertown”, I tell him, and he makes a noise of dawning understanding. “We weren’t like to run in the same pack, your lady and I, but I knew of her. Everyone knew of the little lady in the castle.” 

 

“You risked your life to help her”, he says, and I nod. “Why?” 

 

“Because I’m of the North”, I tell him bluntly, no prevarication, and his eyes meet mine for a moment. “The North remembers.” 

 

He inhales, then breathes out slow. It’s like some great mastiff shifting, grunting and groaning before settling down for the night. “And will you guard her?”, he asks, and I know what he’s asking:

 

_Will you guard her when I’m dead?_

 

So it’s come to that. 

 

“Yes”, I reply, and his face smoothes out some. The scars are cragged deep with pain, his mouth a rictus, and I wish I could do something more, something other than sitting here waiting for a noble girl to wrangle a recalcitrant horse. “She’s my Queen now. I will.” The girl’s a strange one in truth, quiet and sly by turns, who keeps her own company with a queer sort of flatness behind her eyes that is both familiar and frightening. Someone has mistreated the poor girl, and I suspect I know who. _Winterfell’s daughter gone and flown away from King’s Landing_ , the fat little fuck had said, and I know all too well what would make a girl like her leave a place like that. _No good ever came from a Stark going south_ , I think. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

 

None there now, but a girl’s got to wonder what would happen if one were to be returned. One might wonder if the wolves would be gracious. It feels cold-blooded to think of it that way, but a woman doesn’t go into my line of work without a steady head for business and a distinct dearth of scruples. Still, it’s a long shot. 

 

_Not much else to do, Roslyn Smith, seeing as you’re a wanted woman now._

 

You’d think I’d be used to it. I’ve always been a wanted woman, clear from the time I flowered, but this is a new sort of wanting and one I don’t much care for. What with the Mountain undoubtedly being the one doing the wanting, and all. The thought spurs me on, and by the time the little lady has returned leading a gigantic beast of a warhorse by the halter, I’m well and ready to be on my way. 

 

“It will need saddling”, I say, trying to spur the Princess to a bit of haste. “I’ll do it”, her man replies, and the look I shoot him could curdle vinegar. “Hells you will, and muck up that pretty wrapping of mine”, I snap, and he settles back down. Such a biddable man, this one. Then, of course, she makes her little comments and he retorts in kind and I realize, to my horror, that they might be flirting. I doubt she knows. I wonder if _he_ does. I wonder if it isn’t too late to throw myself on that sharp little toothpicker of hers and spare myself some misery.

 

The thought of being stuck with star-crossed lovebirds is near more than I can bear, though the thought of him up and dying—and leaving me with a grieving virgin to boot—isn’t one that thrills me either. Better to keep him alive as best I’m able than listen to my lady Stark cry for her lost love, though I doubt she’d be so quick as to call him that. God knows the man’s soggy for her, but that’s a topic for a day when we aren’t all soggy with his blood, sitting ducks for the Mountain and the remainder of his kennel besides.

 

“All right”, I say, and clap my hands. It startles her so badly she jumps, though the big man only groans under his breath at the noise. I don’t care for the way the knife in his thigh throbs with his heartbeat, but there’s no chance in all the Hells that I’ll be removing it here, in the open. He’ll simply have to bide until we can make camp, preferably as far away as we can get from here, and do his best not to die. “Now you can get up”, I tell him, and lend a hand. He clasps it and staggers to his feet; the princess flutters and clucks like a little hen, doing her best to shoo him towards the horse. I try not to laugh when he does as she says. Proper Florian, this one, for all his growling. 

 

The beast shimmies and prances and I try my hardest to stay as far from the biting and kicking ends as possible. I’m not the best with horses, being far too fancy for the likes of me, but I know which ends to avoid, especially on a spirited beast like that. The dopey little gelding’s more my speed anyways, and far less likely to bite my hand off at the wrist. It settles for the big man, though, and thumps his shoulder with that nose of his. The man grimaces but strokes it all the same, and even the little lady reaches out and strokes the nape of his neck tentatively. 

 

Then with one swing, the man’s put the she-wolf on the back of his horse and swung up in front of her. The pain must be tremendous, though to his credit he manfully avoids puking on the horse’s neck; instead, he retches neatly to one side. The little Stark hands him a wineskin and he swishes his mouth and spits, then swallows a proper mouthful and sighs his thanks. She accepts it and the flask with a quiet little smile.

 

 _Fucking_ Florian, I think with no small degree of amusement, and swing my sack of pilfered goods onto the pommel of the saddle. Hauling myself up after it proves to be a slightly harder go of it in my skirts, and I’m distantly glad that Polliver had yet to have his go. Riding after, well, _riding_ , is unpleasant at best, and Polliver isn’t known for his consideration. 

 

 _Don’t think of it_ , I command myself, brooking no nonsense. _He’s dead, you’re not, and you’ve a queen to protect._ _Fuck’s sake_ , I think, and then we’re off into the wilderness fast as we can go, the Inn at our backs and the uncertain road ahead. 

* * *

 

**Sansa**

 

Sansa can’t help but feel as though this has all gone terribly awry. 

 

Sandor is bleeding slowly but steadily through his trousers, staining the sensible wool of her dress a terrible crimson. _Lannister crimson_ , she thinks, and feels that same strange hatred blossom in her chest like some fetid flower. Maester Luwin had once told her of a blossom from Dorne which bloomed only once a summer, and then only at night. It’s petals were creamy soft and milky white and the flower itself was beautiful, but the stench drove away all but the hardiest admirers. It reeked of rotting meat, _sickly sweet and cloying_ , she had read in her herbal, and so it had been named the Corpse Flower. 

 

Sansa has never smelled rotting meat. 

 

Her father’s head had been dipped in tar and so had been spared the indignity of going foul in the heat, but she thinks that it must smell something like the wound in Sandor’s thigh. They’ve been riding for what seems like aeons, stopping only to drink—or make—water. The horses are tired, nearly blown, but Ros has set a steady pace and Sandor, during his ever-briefer period of lucidity, had nodded his assent through gritted teeth. Undoubtedly, he fears the Mountain far more than he fears the knife and knowing what she does of the elder Clegane, Sansa can’t find it in herself to protest.

 

Of course, that was before Sandor had started swaying perilously in the saddle, and before every shift of his muscles brought that same sickly-sweet stench to her nose. 

 

And then Sandor had given a low, wrecked groan and toppled clear from Stranger’s back, nigh taking her with him. She yelps and clings to Stranger’s mane like a squirrel, much to the courser’s emphatic protests, and avoids tumbling off his back and on to Sandor by the barest of margins. He’s fallen to the dirt of the road as though struck dead, and Sansa wonders for a moment if he has, in fact, died. The thought makes her blood run chill. 

 

“Oh, Seven Hells save me”, she hears, and looks up to see Ros swinging herself from the stolen gelding’s saddle with entirely too much ease for someone who’d claimed no proficiency whatsoever on horseback. She doesn’t sound happy, and Sansa wonders how bad it must be that the unflappable woman has decided to indulge in a stream of invective that might succeed in adding a few new words to Sandor’s impressive vocabulary. 

 

 _Assuming, of course_ , her traitorous mind supplies darkly, _that he isn’t dead._

 

“He’s not dead”, Ros says bluntly, and for a second Sansa wonders if she’s managed to read her mind. She suspects she might have said it aloud, but the thought is uncanny never the less. 

 

“He’s not?” “He’s breathing”, the redhead tells her, and Sansa tries not to feel stupid. She tries to avoid watching Sandor for too long, lest her cheeks heat and she forget her composure. She knows herself entirely too well; she’s never been very good at resisting temptation. “I knew that”, she blurts out, and Ros just nods. Sansa suspects she isn’t convinced. “But he’s not in a good way”, she adds. 

 

Sansa knows that, too, though she’s struggled to pretend otherwise. 

 

But the world is an awful place, Sansa knows, and so she lifts her chin, summons the ice and steel of her Stark ancestors, and soldiers steadily onwards. She will not be weak, not today. 

 

“What do we do?” 

 

“That knife’ll have to come out”, Ros replies with alacrity, “and it’s going to be unpleasant. It’s started to fester, you see”, and Sansa does look, and she makes herself _see_ the red streaks along his veins, the pallor that she’d missed by riding pillion. _He’s hidden it from me_ , she realizes with dull horror. She remembers their panicked flight north through the riverlands; she’d always ridden in front of him in the saddle. When he’d swung up in front of her after the horror at the Inn, she had thought it was to avoid pressing her into the knife embedded in his thigh. Now she wonders if perhaps he’d been trying to shelter her from the gravity of the situation. She would think it uncharacteristic, until she remembers the man who came for her in the riot. He’d spared her then, too, and so she knows. 

 

“Will it kill him? The rot, I mean”, and Ros meets her gaze. It’s assessing, taking her measure, and Sansa can see Ros come to her decision. “It might”, she says quietly, and Sansa feels her stomach plummet. “But it might not. He’s a strong one, your man”, and Sansa knows that he is the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, Gregor Clegane be damned to all the hells, “and he’s got something to live for. That helps.” 

 

“What would that be?”, Sansa asks against her better judgement. She feels like a doe in the woods, curious and wary by turns. 

 

Ros shoots her a look of such bald disbelief that Sansa almost, _almost_ , smiles, it’s so reminiscent of Arya. “Well, if you don’t know, far be it for me to tell you”, comes her tart reply, and Sansa ducks her head. “Now help me, my lady, because we’ll needs make this quick. The longer we tarry, the worse it will be for him.” 

 

She’d fetched the needle and thread from the bottom of her little sack, brushing aside her father’s doll and a handful of Joffrey’s ostentatiously ugly gold jewelry. No fool, she had noticed Ros tense when her hand had fished out a lion pendant, though the elder woman had said nothing and looked away quick as a rabbit in the brush. Sansa had not asked. She only hopes the woman doesn’t intend on robbing her blind; after seeing her strike at Polliver’s portly little friend, she has no desire to meet her in a fight. She’d have no chance. Still, Ros makes no move towards the pendant or the satchel, and so Sansa allows herself to drift inwards, steeling herself for the ugliness to follow. 

 

And it is ugliness. 

 

Ros splits his trouser from ankle to thigh in one quick slice, baring surprisingly pale skin and curiously dark hair. The wound has long since turned, the edges pulled away from the blade, the skin around it weeping and angrily red. The smell makes her stomach revolt and she gags piteously. Even Ros looks queasy, and the movement is enough to jar Sandor to a shuddering wakefulness, lucid and raving by turns. 

 

“Ah, hells”, Ros spits as he shudders, quaking hard enough to make Sansa’s teeth ache. The wound pulses sluggishly with his pulse, and Sansa flinches away from it. 

 

“Should we cauterize it?”, she hears herself ask, and when Sandor responds, she nearly jumps out of her skin. “No fire! No fire. _Please_ ”, she hears him beg her in his growl of a voice. The look in his eyes is so broken, so sudden and cringing in its fear, that she can not bring herself to press the issue. She knows he’s looking at her, but she doubts he sees her. She does not want to know what he sees, and damns herself for a coward. She is not afraid of Sandor Clegane any longer, and she does not want him to ever be afraid of her. She tries to avert her eyes to offer him privacy in his weakness, but Ros interjects and rebukes her so soundly that Sansa’s cheeks flush dully with embarrassment. “Enough of that modesty, my lady”, she hears Ros chide distantly, mistaking proffered dignity for modesty. “That might be proper in a castle, but we lack your stone walls here. I’m no septa, sweetling, and if he dies there won’t be anyone to tell tales out of school. The wound needs cleaning”, she continues on, with the brisk no-nonsense pace of the adept, “and we’re what he’s got.” 

 

Sansa nods, dumbstruck, and Ros had leans in close as Sandor breaths shallowly through his nose. “Your hands are steadier than mine”, she tells her, voice flat, “and we’ll need a steady hand for the stitches. The difference between his life and death may well be that maidenly chastity of yours; so put it away for now and remember it when we’re back in civilization. It does you no favours here.” 

 

Septa Mordane would have disapproved in the strongest of terms, Sansa knows, but Septa Mordane is dead. 

 

Then again, she thinks, Septa Mordane might have understood the need for an exception in this case. Charity is one of a lady’s virtues, after all.  _A lady is chaste in word and deed, mindful of others and herself._ She is generous and diligent; patient, gentle and kind. _A lady remembers her duty_ , she remembers her mother telling her one night, _and a lady protects her people_. Sansa has only ever wanted to be a lady. 

 

 _You are a wolf_ , the voice low in her chest snarls, possessive as any beast, _and a wolf protects her pack_. That decides it. These are her people: the man who saved her and the woman who defended her. Sandor Clegane depends on her steady hand. He is her pack, and she will protect him.  

 

 _After all,_ she thinks with a certain wild recklessness, _who is left to judge me?_

 

There is no-one; only Jon at the Wall, and a pack of hungry ghosts that left her alone to the winds of winter and the pride of lions. 

 

She owes them nothing; not today. Not with Sandor’s life hanging in the balance. _Ros is right_ , she thinks resolutely. _I can be a lady later._

 

And so it is that Sansa finds herself boiling the last of the wine in Sandor’s dogs-head helm, the only container between the three of them that will serve. The fire Ros makes is a pittance, just kindling and twigs, barely enough to bring the wine to steaming. Still, she sits and watches the little embers, and prays. _Mother, please_ , she begs. _Please, not him. Not—not like this_. Prayers stick in her mouth; sticky as castor syrup, rancid as butter left in the sun. _He cannot die_ , she prays desperately. He is the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms. _He cannot die_. 

 

 _Please, Mother, don’t let him die_. Not from a little knife. 

 

 _Just a little knife_ , she remembers him telling her once, and stifles a sob with the back of her hand. Her fingertips are slick with his blood. She thinks she might have smeared some; her face is wet with something that isn’t tears. _Just a little knife, but it will kill you just as dead_. He had been trying to protect her and had succeeded only in frightening her. He himself had failed to heed his own advice. 

 

She realizes to her horror that she has made Sandor Clegane a hypocrite. 

 

 _He was protecting me,_ she thinks, and the horror swells anew. _He tried to protect me. He wanted to keep that man away from me, wanted to see me out safely. If he hadn’t been focused on me, he would have seen that girl. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt_. He is the only one who has cared for her since the day Joffrey had made her look at her father’s head. She hears a muffled whimper and realizes to her dismay that it’s her own. 

 

_How many more times must I watch the people I love die? Stranger, please, how many more will you take from me?_

 

Her brain skids sharply to a halt. 

 

 _No_ , she thinks dully. _It can’t be._ He’s not handsome. Not a lord. Not even a knight. Just a bad man, a killer of other bad, _worse_ , men. _He is not an appropriate match for a young lady._ Septa Mordane’s voice rings in her head, grating on her nerves like the gritty crunch of boots on fresh powder snow. It sets her teeth on edge. 

 

 _I am not a young lady_ , the wolf in her snarls, all bristled fur and bared fangs. _I am the Stark in Winterfell, and heir to the North_. The thought tastes of bitter ash and loss. She thinks of Father, of her lady mother, of Robb; of the only people in the world to whom she had owed her obedience. They’re all dead, and so Sansa Stark is free to craft her own destiny. Her hands shake with terror; she clasps them before her. She is careful to keep her expression serene, pretty as polished armour. She wishes she could scream. 

 

She wonders if this is what her father had felt like when his brother Brandon had been murdered, when he became heir, when he was summoned South the first time. 

 

She wonders if her brave lord father was ever as lost and frightened as her. 

 

_I’ll make you a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, and gentle, and strong._

 

Her father’s voice is so clear in that instant that she whips around in shock, eyes wide, expecting to find him standing behind her. There is only Ros, resting against a tree, and Sandor, shuddering fitfully from the fever. The familiar feeling of grief rises in her throat, tempered now with quiet desperation. He had promised, and her father had always kept his word. He had despised liars. 

 

She wonders what he would have thought of Sandor Clegane, who hated— _hates_ , she amends quickly, afraid to damn him with her lack of faith—who _hates_ hypocrites. She thinks he might have tolerated him, at first. Being born Clegane is not a crime, and the North has no need of ribbons on their swords. She images that if circumstances were different, Ned Stark might have learned to like Sandor Clegane. She indulges herself by imagining that Sandor Clegane might have learned to be a Northman, in time. 

 

And now it’s all completely irrelevant, because Sandor Clegane will die unless she manages to save him.

 

 The wine comes to a boil and Sansa wraps her hands carefully in her cloak and pulls the helm off the small fire. It steams, redolent and strong like mulled cider at a feast. Her stomach churns, but she resolutely ignores it as she makes her way across the clearing to Ros. The woman shifts, moving to sit beside him and murmuring at Sandor, poking and prodding him in the oddest places with the grimmest look Sansa has ever seen on a woman before. She suspects his answers do not make Ros happy, and that frightens her to the bone. 

 

“Pardon me”, she whispers to interrupt their muttered conversation, and Ros waves her over. 

 

“Set it here”, she says, and Sandor looks at the helm with deep reservation. This will not be as effective as the fire, Ros had warned them both, but given the circumstances they will make do. Still, Sansa thinks she can understand Sandor’s reservations; the wine bubbles wickedly, and the bottom of the dog’s head helm is cherry red from the embers. 

 

Ros reaches down, wrapping her hand around the hilt of the blade. With one sudden heave, the knife comes free in a blast of wretched stink and oozing pus. Sansa manages to hold on to her gorge by willpower alone; Sandor retches piteously into the grass at his side. “To be expected”, Ros says with considerable sangfroid, and Sansa shoots her a look. Ros simply shrugs, and hands Sandor a willow-branch. “Now you, my lady”, she tells her, and Sansa distantly notices Sandor biting down on the stick with bared teeth, scars gaunt in a face gone pale as birch bark. 

 

Sansa feels neither kind nor gentle as she pours the last of their wine on the gash. 

 

Sandor bites down on the stick hard enough to splinter it, and screams and screams in a voice like steel on granite. 

 

Suddenly, the noise stops, and Sansa realizes distantly that he has fallen unconscious. She thinks that might be a mercy, and wishes desperately for milk of the poppy. She has none to offer him, and so takes advantage of his faint to stitch up his thigh as best she’s able. Her hands are sticky with blood and worse by the time she’s done; she wipes them distractedly on her skirt, watching him through watering eyes. Once her work has been completed to Ros’ reluctant satisfaction—a ghastly work of red thread and infected skin, still leaking fluid—she sits at his side and waits away the hours. 

 

He has not woken fully since; he still struggles weakly when she cleans the wound as best she’s able, packing it with some wild garlic she’d found growing near the Trident. It hasn’t helped; if anything, the garlic seems to mould and fester along with the flesh. He groans and frets and weeps and begs, but worsens by the hour. It’s been two days since the wine, now, and Sansa has yet to sleep, though Sandor has done nothing but. She prays it means he’s resting, gathering strength and recovering, but by now she knows better than to believe her own pretty lies. 

 

Still, it’s a nice dream. 

 

While he sleeps, she prays and sings and begs the Gods the same refrain, over and over again, _Please, don’t let him die_. 

 

Sansa has always been a devout girl. Now, as the breath rattles in his throat, she prays to the Mother. 

 

“Please”, she hears herself sob, “please. Show me what to do. Show me how to save him. _Please_.” 

 

 _Please_ , he begs her hours later, when the sun has dipped below the horizon. Ros has come and gone, offering a meal of salt fish and a wizened apple that Sansa had politely refused. The thought of food has turned her stomach for days, though gnawing hunger has become a constant companion. She thinks, distantly, that it is no more than she deserves. Sandor had been injured saving her and now lies dying; she has no appetite for anything more than the barest of sustenance. Mercifully, Ros has not pressed the issue yet, though her gaze becomes stonier with every refusal and Sansa suspects it will become an issue soon. 

 

 _Please_ , he begs again. _Mercy_. She isn’t even sure he’s awake, let alone lucid. _Mercy, mercy_ , he pleads brokenly through dry, cracked lips. 

 

Sansa knows all about mercy. 

 

 _I was merciful_ , she hears Joffrey say, his voice in her mind the texture of pond scum. 

 

Sansa does not believe in mercy any longer; not when it costs her the life of someone she loves. She wonders if that makes her cold. 

 

And she does love Sandor. She has resigned herself to that fact with the attitude of one reconciling themselves to a death sentence; she has yet again chosen an eminently unsuitable man to care for, though this one seems likely to shuck his mortal coil and save her the trouble of lamenting her poor choices. But she does love him never the less, despite his roughness and his lack of manners and his crude habits. He is loyal, and strong, and he is gentle with her now. 

 

_Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it._

 

Sansa would like to laugh, but the sound that escapes sounds more like a strangled sob. 

 

Joffrey had wanted her, and hated her and resented her in equal measure, ever since Arya had humiliated him and Sansa had watched. He had wanted to see her brought low, as she had seen him. _If nothing else_ , she thinks suddenly, _I can be certain Sandor Clegane wants me for my own self_. He loves her hair, her pretty face, her sweet voice. _Little bird_ , he calls her, and she thinks it stopped being an insult a long time ago. _He wants me because I am beautiful,_ Sansa knows, _and because I am a lady_. He had wanted her when her only claim was to be a traitor’s daughter and the sister of an usurper. 

 

Joffrey had coveted her and it had been nightmarish. _I should be scared to tears at the thought of being wanted_. Instead, she is surprised to discover that the thought of being desired by a man like Sandor Clegane gives her a heady thrill. After all, he is a terrifying fighter. Ruthless in battle and abrasive in temperament, he’s often awful, frequently rude and unfailingly protective of her. He wants her but does not flatter her with roses and he does not try to buy her with gold. Instead, he looks as though she were made of both, far too precious for him to touch. 

 

 _He looks at me as though I were the Maiden_ , Sansa realizes with a strange little thrill low in her belly. She thinks she likes it. She knows it doesn’t matter. 

 

Sandor Clegane is dying, and Sansa has acquired the habit of following him like a shadow. The image of the Stranger flashes behind her eyes, and for the first time Sansa notes his resemblance to Sandor. Half his face a horror, with an air of menace drifting around him like woodsmoke and incense. Sansa shivers, but remembers Sandor’s ragged pleas for mercy and wonders if she should not perhaps be more gracious. 

 

Though she’s prayed to all the Seven in the Sept, the Stranger has ever been her least honoured. She has lit no candles in his name, murmured no invocations. As a child in Winterfell, the carving of the Stranger had frightened her. With his black shroud, his carved face half a skull and fully hidden in the shadow of a cowl, she had looked away from him in fear. He doesn’t frighten her any longer. The Stranger has greeted Father, and her lady mother, her brothers and even her wolf, her gentle Lady. Now, it seems he will welcome Sandor. 

 

Sansa thinks it might not be so bad to follow him, after all. 

 

 _Please_ , she murmurs as the breath rattles in his lungs. She knows better than to ask the Gods to change for her, and so she takes a shallow breath, settles herself into her seat beside him with his head in her lap, and cards her fingers through his lank hair. She knows it is now only a matter of time. 

 

 _I’ll have that song_ , she remembers him telling her, the night he’d frightened her, the night he’d stolen her away. He’d held a little knife to her throat, had threatened her, and then sprung the cage door open and set her free. _Florian and Jonquil,_ he’d demanded. She wonders why he would have chosen that song; a song about a fool and his cunt. _I’ll sing it for you gladly_ , she had chirped at him once. Sansa Stark is a good girl, and dutiful. She had promised. 

 

 _At least this time_ , she thinks, bitterness rich on her tongue, _the Gods have given me the chance to say goodbye_. 

 

Quietly, softly, she begins to sing him Florian and Jonquil through a voice thick with sorrow. When she hears a man’s voice from the road raise in harmony, Sansa’s blood runs cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long awaited (and just plain long!)--here's the latest update. I would recommend reading this to the song quoted in the introduction: "The Devil's Backbone" by The Civil Wars. It was a major influence in writing this, so if you like a little mood music as accompaniment, that's mine! 
> 
> Incidentally, we're totally off canon here now so ye be warned. That said, this thing's nearly ten thousand words, so consider that an apology for the long wait! 
> 
> Of course, that does mean that you're left with yet another cliff-hanger...


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